


Ain't No Grave

by Raine_Wynd



Series: Author's Favorites [27]
Category: Highlander: The Series, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Crossover, Divorce, Foul Language, Friendship, Gen, Headhunting Immortals, Honor, Immortality, Kidnapping, Loyalty, Minor Character Death, New Immortal, Non-Permanent Character Death, Payback, Polyamory, Quickening, Quickening Tricks, Richie Lives, Sneakiness, The Game (Highlander), Watchers, beheadings, sword fights
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-25
Updated: 2018-02-19
Packaged: 2019-03-09 05:51:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 35,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13475028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raine_Wynd/pseuds/Raine_Wynd
Summary: Hawkeye, meet Robin Hood. Yes, the original one.Subtitle courtesy of kickair8p: "Ah, Immortal, No."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Canon notes: Set post-Civil War, and any MCU canon after that is being gleefully ignored. I do not watch Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. so that isn't part of this either. Also, Highlander sixth season and the atrocity known as Endgame didn't happen.
> 
> Head canon notes: Clint Barton worked for S.H.I.E.L.D. for 20 years, and married Laura about five years after he started. He says that he "made a deal with Fury after he joined S.H.I.E.L.D." to keep the farm and his family off the books, but as a new recruit, he wouldn't have any leverage to make that deal until he'd done something damn impressive. Because Fury.

Without a window to help him gauge time, Clint couldn’t tell whether it was morning or night in the bedroom where he was chained. The chain fastened to a heavy steel cuff at his right ankle and had enough length that he could pace the room or use the ensuite bathroom with no issues. The room had just enough space for a queen-size bed, a dresser, a nightstand, an armoire, and a four-drawer chest. All the furniture was bolted to either the wall or the floor and looked as though it belonged on some movie set somewhere for a 1950s-era bedroom. His captor hadn’t appreciated his refusal to wear the damn wedding tux hanging in the closet and had knocked him unconscious with some poison.

He just hoped that someone other than the woman who called herself Mrs. Johnny Standridge — “don’t ever call me Marlene” — would show up soon. He had no desire to continue to play husband to a woman clearly not in her right mind, who insisted that he serve her according to the twisted logic of her fantasy, in which he was her virginal, ever-faithful, devoted, Bible-reading slave. One consolations he’d had was that Marlene had seemed horrified by the suggestion of sex. Clint had been desperate enough that he’d been willing to seduce his way of this captivity; it had resulted in Marlene attacking him with a knife until he’d calmed her down.

Clint knew it had been at least two weeks since he’d stepped into a club in Seattle, wanting to get a drink and dance off some frustration. He’d thought with the mess of the Accords settled and he was no longer a fugitive, he could go back to his life. Unfortunately, that had meant facing his wife, who was not about to forgive he’d abandoned their kids and her to go be an Avenger. Clint had tried to convince Laura he was sorry, but she remained steadfast. So long as he would put being a hero above her and the kids, she didn’t want to stay married to him and put up with his excuses why he couldn’t be there when she and the kids needed him. That had meant divorce. S.H.I.E.L.D.’s new organization meant Clint was out of work. Clint had money stashed away and an apartment in New York City he’d often used as an official home base when in town thanks to his paranoia about being broke, homeless, and hungry, but without a mission, he’d been at loose ends. Both Steve and Tony had assured him he wouldn’t be without funds. Clint hadn’t been surprised to discover within hours of them separately reassuring him of that fact, he had two incredibly significant deposits into his bank account. Together, the deposits meant that he wouldn’t be hurting for money for some time.

A call from an old friend had resulted in him hopping a plane to Seattle to be in a wedding. He’d arrived just in time to see it get called off. Not wanting to immediately go home, Clint had taken the few days he’d planned to play tourist. Clint knew Steve Rogers and the rest of their team would go looking for him eventually. Clint wasn’t sure when he’d be rescued. His cell phone was gone, as was the subdermal tracking implant S.H.I.E.L.D. had put in him when he was still an agent (he’d insisted on its removal after being horrified at what Project Insight had been intended to do).

Clint’s other consolation in his captivity was that he was certain he’d died twice and come back to life. Marlene had been vicious about her displeasure the first week of his captivity when he’d resisted her efforts to play her games and had stabbed him in the stomach and drugged him unconscious. Thanks to his experiences as a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent and from his childhood being beaten and abused, Clint knew what it felt like to almost die. He had no proof to his theory of resurrection other than the fact that the area around his ankle where the steel cuff was rubbed raw, but he kept seeing little bolts of lightning healing the skin. He’d also acquired an extra sense of someone incoming, not unlike the times he’d spent in a sniper’s nest for more than a few hours and knew when someone was in his territory. It felt very specific, though, like it wasn’t just anyone he was sensing. Clint couldn’t explain why, but it had warned him when Marlene was coming back long before she appeared in the room.

He heard footsteps on the floor above him and felt that odd sensation of incoming presence again, which usually meant his captor would be coming down to see him. He braced himself for another dose of crazy as the door to his prison opened. Much to his surprise, he saw a tall, broad-shouldered, athletic man with dark brown hair and a heart-shaped face step through the doorway. The stranger was dressed in a blue plaid shirt, jeans, and sneakers. The shirt was stained with blood splatter and one sleeve was slashed, as if the stranger had been in a fight. The stranger looked to be in his mid-thirties, and radiated concern, as if he knew what he’d find.

“Well, this is not what I had in mind when I built this room,” he declared. “This was supposed to be a storeroom. You waiting on anyone?”

“A rescue would be nice,” Clint said, lifting the chain.

The stranger grinned and showed him the heavy-duty bolt cutters he’d brought. “Figured as much,” he said easily. “Name’s Cory Raines; I’ll get you out in a jiff. You won’t have to worry about Marlene anymore.”

“I won’t?” Clint asked as Cory approached. This close, Clint estimated the other man was a few inches taller than his own five-foot-nine-inches, wider at the shoulder, and more solidly built, but Clint suspected that in a fight, they’d be nearly a match.

“She’s dead,” Cory told him as he snapped the chain and then the latch securing the steel cuff, careful to cut so it did not injure Clint further. “She probably told you she was Mrs. Johnny Standridge, and you were Johnny?”

“Yeah,” Clint said grimly, and examined his ankle. As he’d suspected, the skin was abraded, but the wound was quickly fading. “Said I looked like Johnny.”

“Probably,” Cory agreed neutrally as he stepped back to allow Clint room. “If it’s any consolation, I had no idea she was using my house for this shit.”

“She related to you?”

Cory shook his head. “No. Someone I tried to help a long time ago. I usually rent this place out; she stayed here when I was living here about twenty years ago. Came by to check on it since my real estate agent told me someone chased her off the property. Come on; I’m sure you’re wanting to get the hell out of here and back where you belong.”

Cory led the way out of the room, which was in the basement of an otherwise unremarkable house, and into the kitchen. A canvas messenger bag sat on the small table. Cory undid the latches on the leather straps holding the bag closed, pulled out a cell phone, and handed it to Clint. “My only request is that you don’t call the police.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m a thief and as of ten minutes ago, a murderer,” Cory said flatly, “and if it’s all the same to you, I’d like to have at least an hour’s head start so I can dump Marlene’s body somewhere else than here.” He pointed to the living room.

Clint looked past the kitchen to see Marlene’s headless body on the floor in the living room and swallowed hard. Now the blood splatter on Cory’s shirt made sense. “How the hell did you kill her?”

“Sword. Hers, of course. Only way to kill one of us.”

“One of us?”

Cory regarded him, and the sharply assessing look he gave Clint made Clint reevaluate him instantly. That was not a look an average thief gave to someone. In that moment, Cory looked like a man who’d seen a lot of hard living and understood life was sometimes ugly. “You don’t know about immortals?”

“Only in fiction. I know some very long-lived people, but I’ve seen Thor bleed; he’s not immune.”

“You want the short version or the long version?”

“Short. I’d like to get the hell away from here; I’m sure Steve and Natasha have been looking for me.”

“Steve and Natasha?”

“Also known as Captain America and Black Widow?”

Cory stared at him, then chuckled, amused. “And that makes you Clint Barton, also known as Hawkeye?”

“Yes?” Clint was getting irritated. “And that’s funny why?”

Smirking, Cory said, “It’s funny because I was Robin Hood, once upon a time. I was just wondering what the chances of you being immortal were to a friend of mine, and I won a very nice bet.”

“Glad I could help,” Clint said sarcastically. “Still doesn’t tell me shit.”

Cory’s expression became serious. “You, my friend, are now immortal. You can die if you lose your head; other than that, you’ll come back to life. Cuts, stab wounds, illnesses, poison – no longer a problem for you. Well, only a temporary one. We are blessed or cursed, depending on your point of view, by a kind of magic. Looks like blue lightning if you have a wound.”

“That why my ankle isn’t scarred anymore and feels like it’s healing up as I stand here?”

“Yes,” Cory said. “Don’t fight on Holy Ground; everything around you will blow up and you will die. Avoid getting into swordfights; getting your opponent’s Quickening can be useful but it’s messy.”

“And you know this because?” Clint drawled, hoping against hope Cory would tell him something other than what he suspected was true.

“Because I am one. That weird sensation of someone approaching you had when I walked up is your cue another immortal is in the vicinity. You can run, negotiate a truce, or you can fight. Your call. I advocate running; it’s amazing how many decades can go by.”

“Sounds like a coward’s way out.”

Cory shrugged. “Only if you think being not able to fight something else, something better or bigger is cowardly. I’d rather spend my time giving to the poor than running around chasing heads, trying to gain someone else’s knowledge and power. It’s not always worth it.” He grimaced. “Like now. I really, really didn’t need to know what Marlene did here before and including when she kidnapped you.” Cory paused. “Listen. Feel free to not believe me, but I’ll give you my number and email, and you can contact me when you do. Or not. I’ll give you a spare sword and a bow so you don’t feel you’re unarmed.”

Clint stared at Cory, then at the phone, then back at Cory, not sure what to believe. “Where are we?”

“About forty-six miles north of Seattle,” Cory told him, moving to open what appeared to be a walk-in pantry. He disappeared for a moment. Clint heard the distinct sound of a lock being unlocked before Cory emerged with leather-sheathed sword, leather quiver, a half-dozen arrows, and a well-used compact crossbow.

“Robin Hood? Seriously?”

“I was hanged for shooting the king’s deer; it’s how I died the first time,” Cory admitted, setting the weapons down on the table in the kitchen. “I’m old enough to remember when the king got fat while the peasants starved. I still hunt deer, but the food bank here won’t take venison meat, which is a damned shame. They used to love being able to get it.” He seemed upset by this.

“So why are you giving me this?” He was amazed at Cory’s generosity.

Cory shrugged. “If you’d run out of here screaming or wanted your friends to come rescue you, you’d have done so by now.” He met Clint’s eyes. “You strike me as a guy who’s used to having a quiver on his back and a bow in his hand, and nothing feels right until you do. I understand that feeling. I made that quiver; it’s set up so a sword will slide right in. Downside is you lose room for two or three arrows, but –” he shrugged “– been worth it.”

Clint studied the other man and decided Cory meant every word he said. Cory could have just skipped any explanations and sent Clint on his way, but he hadn’t, even if it meant trusting Clint wouldn’t call the police while they talked. Later, when Clint had access to the Avengers Training Facility, he could figure out who Cory Raines was. The least Clint could do for the gifts he’d received before he called the cavalry to come get him was to move his late captor’s corpse. Clint went with his gut. Magic was no longer out of the realm of possibility, not anymore. If he called the police, he wasn’t sure how to explain how he wasn’t scarred by weeks of being chained like an animal. “So how did you want to move the body?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Cory decided. “Let’s at least get you off this property and into town so your friends can find you. I’ll drop you off at the park; you’ll get a better cell signal there.”

Cory then showed how the sword sheath fitted into the back of the quiver. The design was so seamless it made the sword handle look like a decorative piece.

“That’s awesome,” Clint remarked. “What made you consider doing it that way?”

Cory smiled. “I said I was Robin Hood, didn’t I? I grew up in an age where fighting with sword and bow was common, even necessary. You can’t buy a quiver like that now. Which reminds me – you went up against alien space whale-troop carriers with a bow and arrow? Did anyone assume you were crazy?”

Clint chuckled. “I did,” he admitted. “But Captain America trusted I could do it, and it turned out they couldn’t bank worth a damn, so —” he shrugged. “It worked. That’s what counts.”

“I saw the footage on TV,” Cory told him. “You don’t have an ordinary bow and quiver. Is it custom?”

“Yeah,” Clint nodded. “I’m not allowed to travel on personal business with it, so I didn’t have it with me. Good thing — I’d have been pissed off if I lost it. Stark won’t make me a new one; he’s still holding a grudge about some things. You sure you don’t mind giving me a crossbow and a sword?”

“Given that you’re an Avenger,” Cory said, “my money’s on you needing either or both before too long. You know how to use a sword?”

“Trained with a swordsman in a circus; I know the basics of how to use one,” Clint assured him. “Just — this looks expensive.”

“Dying’s expensive when you don’t want to lose,” Cory countered. “Just remember you don’t have to fight if you’re challenged.”

“Before we go,” Clint said, “You said you used Marlene’s sword. What do you fight with?”

Cory smirked. “Words. The Game isn’t over yet, and I’m having too much fun.”

“No, really. If I’m taking a spare sword of yours, what do you fight with?”

Cory shook his head. “Clint, don’t worry about me. I will fight if I’m forced with no other choice, but I have more weapons than just one sword and one bow. What I gave you is from the stash I kept in this house. Stealing my opponent’s sword and taking his or her head is a favorite way of mine to win. I am not defenseless, but it suits me for other people to think I am.”

Clint frowned. “That seems like a hell of a way to live.”

“Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it,” Cory said cheerfully.

Out of courtesy to the January cold, he gave Clint a heavy and warm leather jacket to use, since Clint was wearing only the white button-down shirt, brown khakis, and brown patent leather dress shoes Marlene had allowed him to wear. Cory guided Clint to a black SUV, then drove him to a park near the western edge of town, close to the town’s official welcoming sign. Before driving off, he handed Clint a business card and wished him good luck. Clint watched him drive away, realizing as he did so the rear license plate was obscured by a dirtied and yellowed protective plastic cover.

“Not making it easy for anyone to track you,” Clint muttered before he dialed Steve’s number, grateful he’d long ago made a habit of memorizing phone numbers.

“Steve, it’s me, Clint,” he said, answering Steve’s cautious hello. “Listen, I’m okay, but I’m in a place called Gold Bar, Washington. I could use a ride home.”

“Thank God,” Steve said. “We’ve been looking for you for six weeks. What happened?”

“Some crazy woman named Marlene roofied my drink, kidnapped me, and put a chain on me so I couldn’t escape,” Clint said. “Claimed I was her husband Johnny.”

“How’d you escape?” Steve queried, concerned. Something about his unqualified assumption that Clint _had_ escaped eased the unconscious fear Steve didn’t believe him capable of escaping Clint didn’t realize he’d harbored.

“Owner of the house she was using came to check on the property,” Clint said. “He freed me. Told me he’d taken care of Marlene. I wasn’t about to ask for what he meant by that after he cut the shackle and chain.”

“You don’t think you have anything to worry about from him?”

Clint chuckled. Even knowing Cory could kill, he couldn’t imagine Cory being someone he had to worry about. “No. Is Natasha with you?”

“She thought you might’ve gone down to one of your safe houses in Los Angeles; she’s there now. I didn’t think you were that far. You in a safe place?”

Clint considered the deserted park and the general sense he got this town shut down at sunset. “Got a bow and a set of arrows; I’m good,” he told Steve. “If you’ll be a while, I can see about finding a hotel.”

“No, I needed to orient myself and put your location in the map app. Give me about an hour, hour and half, and I’ll pick you up.”


	2. Chapter 2

Having dropped off Clint, dealt with Marlene’s body, worked off the Quickening he had taken with a run, and slept, Cory had woken up the next morning, determined to do the right thing and make sure Clint had a proper teacher. Namely, anyone but him. Training a new immortal would mean he would have to delay doing what he loved: stealing from the rich to give to the poor. That Cory had enough wealth to not rob anything was immaterial; it was the principle of the thing. He ignored that he had been doing well investing in real estate and earning a living without having to steal a dime. Cory was also certain a man of Clint’s heroic ways would do better with someone who shared those values, not a lifelong thief. That meant making a phone call to the best immortal in the Game: the elder Highlander, Connor MacLeod.

“Hey, Connor,” Cory did his best breezy, just-called-to-chat voice.

An amused chuckle met his words. “No, Cory. Whatever it is you want, I won’t do it. Not until you pay me for the cufflinks you ‘borrowed.’ Keep it up and we’ll change that ‘borrowed’ to ‘stole.’”

Affronted, Cory replied, “You said they were a gift.”

“From my kinsman, not to you,” Connor said, his voice as clipped and oddly accented as ever.

Cory winced, grateful Connor had not yet adopted video calls and could not see Cory’s expression. That meant he could not ask the other Highlander and Connor’s student, Duncan, either. Given the way the MacLeods adopted technology, Cory was certain Connor would text Duncan a warning not to accept. Still, it was worth asking. “Not even if it’s to train someone who knows how to use a sword and won’t need much guidance?” Cory wheedled.

A small silence met his words. “Who is it?”

Aware the immortal grapevine worked efficiently, Cory held back information. “Not naming names, but he’s paramilitary, and he’s in New York.”

“And you can’t because?” Connor wondered.

“Because I’m not in New York and he is. Connor, he’s a hero. There’s nobody in the world like him. Someone kidnapped him and he still had a sense of humor.” Cory didn’t hide his admiration.

“Where’s your teacher?”

“Also not in New York,” Cory answered.

A dry chuckle met his words. “Good luck with that then,” Connor said, and disconnected the line.

Undeterred, Cory dialed the next number on his list, then reconsidered and disconnected. No way was he going to call Duncan “Mac” MacLeod. Cory knew the man had a temper; he had provoked it enough times and had even gotten himself blown up once. He had once believed Mac would never kill a student, but then he had found a bitter and nearly broken Richie in a London pub, a scar on his neck, with a story Cory only wormed out of him after copious amounts of alcohol. Cory was often called reckless, but even he would not risk history repeating itself. He had lived too long to see history do that, often with worse results. No, Cory thought to himself, Richie would be a better choice. Despite everything that had happened to him, Richie still had a joy for life Cory appreciated.

Being the student of one of the famed MacLeods was enough to make Richie Ryan a target. Cory had asked him once how he felt having a bullseye painted on his head. Richie had chuckled grimly and said, “If they think I’m going to die for Duncan, they got the wrong guy. If they think I’ll defend Connor’s honor…they’re idiots, because I’ll tell them to go to fucking New York and fight him over it, not me.”

Cory had heard rumors for years that Richie had spent time as a headhunter after parting ways with Duncan; that Richie had trained more with Connor than he had with Duncan. Having seen several fights, Cory knew Richie was a deadly precise fighter when challenged, not above using words to taunt his opponent into making a mistake, and not someone he wanted to face. If he ever did, Cory knew he would have to cheat to win. Cory never claimed to be a great swordsman; he had won the challenges he won by being underestimated and sneakier. It had served him well in his nearly eight centuries, but part of his longevity was because he’d surrounded himself with friends willing to fight on his behalf.

“This better be damned important, Cory,” Richie growled when the call connected, “because I was sleeping.”

Cory frowned. “It’s 6:30 AM here. Where are you?”

“Paris. As in France, because I know you’ll ask if I meant Paris, Texas.” Richie paused. “And you woke me up.”

“But it’s afternoon there,” Cory said, surprised. “Shouldn’t you be awake by now?”

“Not if I was up all night,” Richie responded grumpily, “and didn’t get to bed until 3 AM. So what do you want?”

“Any chance you’ll go to New York soon?” Cory inquired hopefully.

“No, I left there a week ago after helping Connor with year-end inventory,” Richie told him. “What did you need?”

“Someone to train a new immortal who won’t need much training,” Cory said.

“Wait a minute,” Richie said, sounding more awake and much more calculating. “You actually want to make sure someone new gets a proper introduction to the Game? You usually just slap them on the back, say ‘Welcome to the Game’, and hope they figure it out eventually. Who are you and what happened to the guy who doesn’t care who lives or dies in the Game?”

Cory shifted his shoulders. “I still don’t. But you do.”

“Cory, I love you like a brother, but I’m not dropping everything for you this time. Not this time. Is this new immortal someone really special?”

“He’s a real hero kind of guy,” Cory tried.

“And I have new job – running the bar here in Paris. You know the one that’s on Holy Ground? Belongs to Amanda and Nick Wolfe? Who told me to tell you I’m under contract for the next two years and so can’t get involved in anything you’re planning? Not that I would if it’s back in New York. I refuse to do anything to piss off Connor. I owe him for getting Duncan off my back about me not getting a degree in something. Like it wasn’t an obvious ploy for us to spend time in the same city again. That’s a huge red flag to the Universe.”

Cory swore. His plan to pass off Clint’s training to someone else so he could keep right on doing what he had planned was looking shot full of holes. “So, you’re saying not now?”

“No, you old thief, I’m saying no, period,” Richie clarified. “And if this new guy’s that important, Cory, you should teach him. You sure as hell taught me a few new tricks I didn’t know, like how not to get a Double Quickening when you’re fighting two on two.” Richie softened his voice. “Cory, how long has it been since you took on a student? I know you don’t count me, because you didn’t intend to teach me anything. It happened because I was there doing you a favor. Neither of us expected to get challenged or they wouldn’t take no for an answer. Evan’s twin minions didn’t know what they were getting when they tried to get to you.”

“Two hundred and fifteen years. He didn’t survive past his first century.”

“Because why?”

“Because he was a headstrong idiot,” Cory snapped, the old grief new.

Richie chuckled. “That describes nearly everyone you know. Not all of us learn how not to be headstrong or idiots or both. God knows I took about four years and two close calls too many before I learned to keep my distance from Mac. Have fun, Cory. Don’t lose your head.” Richie hung up.

With a sigh, Cory tried another number. He got a ‘sorry, this number has been disconnected’ before remembering Matthew had told him he had gotten a new cell phone but had kept his email the same. Cory sent a message detailing what he wanted and asking to schedule a video call.

He got a reply a half hour later; Matthew dialed their favorite videoconferencing service and connected to him. Matthew was a lean, athletic man with dark brunette hair and an oval-shaped face.

“You’re being ridiculous.” Though he had been as English as Cory had been, Matthew had long ago adopted a Southern drawl.

Cory rolled his eyes, aware the videocall would only emphasize his reaction. “Come on, Matthew, you’re closer.”

“No, I am not closer to New York. I’m in New Orleans.”

Not dissuaded, Cory persisted, positive he could get his way. The fact his teacher was the third person in a row to tell him no, he could not pawn off teaching Clint Barton to someone else was irrelevant in Cory’s head. “That’s still closer than me. I’m in the Seattle metro area; I have business to tend to here. Besides, you’re still a federal agent, aren’t you? With Homeland Security this time?”

Matthew McCormick sighed, and gave him a look Cory recognized as his ‘why in the world did I get saddled with you as my student’ look. “And you think that gives me a better in than you?”

“You’d have a better excuse to see an Avenger.” With Matthew, Cory knew he could not hide as much detail; the man had ways of ferreting out information.

“Excuse maybe, but you were the one who found him, and I’d wager he wouldn’t trust me.”

“I’m sure he would once you explained –”

“And you’re trying to get out of doing the right thing,” Matthew interrupted. He gentled his tone and added, “I know you. You were my first student, and one of the few still living after all these centuries. If someone else trains Clint Barton, you won’t have the chance to show him what you know about using a bow in the Game, or about how to live without getting into every fight that comes along. Or how to prank every immortal you meet and still have most of them forgive you because you’re a scamp, you’ve always been a scamp, and you will always be a scamp. It will bug you that you passed up that chance, and then,” he held up a finger to emphasize his point, “you’ll channel that frustration into yet another crime spree. You promised me the last time you died in a hail of bullets you were done repeating the same stupid mistakes.” Matthew looked at Cory. “Something about being over seven centuries old and growing up finally? Having a legacy other than old headlines about crimes no one pays much attention to these days? You wanted to settle down and buy some land, play the stock market, be someone other than Cory Raines, bank robber?”

Cory blew out a breath. He always forgot that even drunk, Matthew’s ability to recall things people told him was uncanny. It was part of what made him a formidable lawman for eight centuries. “Yes, and?” Cory said, letting his annoyance show.

Matthew smiled. “And I for one would love to everyone else try to figure out who taught Hawkeye. Everyone will guess the MacLeods.”

“And they’d be wrong,” Cory murmured, aware Matthew was goading him, and aware that Matthew was right. If someone else taught Hawkeye, Cory would regret it, and wind up doing something stupid, just for the attention. “Someday, you old knight, you will regret daring me.”

“I know,” Matthew said, chuckling. “I have, more than once. Pensacola in 1973? And London, thirty years ago?”

Rather than answer that, Cory disconnected the videocall and planned how to get back East. He had hoped to live in the house Marlene had borrowed and use it as a base of operations for his next venture, but he dropped that idea at once. The house had literal skeletons in one bedroom. Beyond what had been in a secret compartment in the pantry, some of which he had given to Clint, Cory had nothing he wanted to keep in the house. The property was in one of his aliases. Blowing up the house or setting it on fire would only attract attention Cory did not want. Better to leave an anonymous tip for the police to find Marlene’s work, and get himself on the next flight to New York. He did not have property in the city, but he had property in Rochester; he could only hope it was close enough – and that he was not too late.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm assuming Civil War took place in June 2016, and that it took a year before the dust settled after the Accords. Clint's divorce was finalized at the end of November; the wedding he was supposed to go to in Seattle was December 9. My head canon is that Clint worked with S.H.I.E.L.D. since his early 20s; he's 48 in 2018. I'm also basing the Avengers training facility in Albany, largely because it's the only city in upstate New York with which I have any familiarity.

Having been checked out by the medical personnel assigned to the Avengers Training Facility and pronounced mostly healthy, Clint took the opportunity to take a second look at what Cory had given him. It was now midmorning and three days since Cory had rescued him. Since the psych evaluation had proven he had suffered some trauma, Clint had two weeks off to help deal with what he had been through and was officially off duty unless it was a world-ending emergency. He always kept a stash of civilian clothes in his assigned quarters at the facility and was pleased to discover he had remembered at some point to include winter clothes, though he had forgotten to bring something warmer than an unlined leather jacket. The day’s forecast called for cold and rainy with the possibility of snow, but for now, it was just cold. With the forecast, Clint wanted to be back in the City before it became too dangerous to drive. Clint was grateful for the heavy leather jacket Cory had given him; it appeared to be a vintage bomber pilot’s jacket designed for the Arctic. The walk between the front door of the facility and the employee parking lot was colder than he was expecting.

The Avengers Training Facility, having been a former Stark Industries warehouse, had been redesigned with an AI installed. Its name was Julie. While Clint liked the convenience of asking Julie questions anywhere he wanted within the facility, Julie was always watching, listening, and recording everything that had not been explicitly excluded. He did not want Julie recording anything involving Cory or immortals, at least – not yet. Something told him immortality was a massive secret held by those who knew it existed, out of fear of experimentation or worse, and Clint did not want to be the guy who exposed it. Still, he took a few moments to do some research on Cory Raines and download what he found to his personal tablet.

Clint’s residence per his official documents was a two-bedroom, one-bath condo with underground parking in an up-and-coming New York City neighborhood. It had been paid for by S.H.I.E.L.D. in exchange for Clint agreeing to work on dangerous missions for another eight years – a ‘one-time bonus in exchange for reduced combat pay.’ Clint had learned the property had been a foreclosure; it had required both cleanup and renovation to be livable. When he had been given it, Clint hadn’t yet met Laura, and had thought little of the fact getting from or to it via the subway was damn near impossible, thus requiring a car. Now, fifteen years later, he considered it his second home, and enjoyed having access to a vehicle.

Clint did not make it out of the Avengers facility without being stopped, though. Wanda Maximoff found him getting ready to get into his red 1970 Dodge Charger, which was parked in the facility’s parking lot. He had expected Natasha, or maybe Steve, but he’d been hoping to sneak out without notice. He had gambled Wanda, the Avengers’ resident telepath, would be too busy with breakfast to notice – but she was also a telekinetic who’d grown used to using her powers freely within the Avengers facility.

Dressed in a long, greenish-gray wool trench coat that looked like she had gone military surplus shopping with a pair of super soldiers, Wanda was also wearing her usual leggings and boots. She had buttoned the trench coat up in deference to the weather, and her hands were partially covered by fingerless gloves. Her long dark auburn hair hung loose under a white knit beanie.

“You should stop thinking so loud,” she scolded lightly.

He froze, wondering what she had picked up from his thoughts.

“You think we wouldn’t notice you gone and worry?”

“I can’t do anything here, Wanda. Not just sitting in a room and contemplating the many ways I’m not contributing. I did enough of that the last six weeks. You should finish breakfast.”

She rolled her eyes. “I have gone hungry before. It is nothing to skip one meal, especially when you know you can get more. Did you not get fed while you were –”

“Locked up and chained by a crazy woman?” Clint finished. “Yes, she fed me twice a day, mostly microwave dinners. If I never eat another Hungry Man dinner, I’ll be happy, and I used to love those.”

“What did she want?”

Clint closed his eyes briefly. “A replacement for the husband who died on their wedding night. I looked him up; he was hit by a drunken driver who never saw him crossing the road.” Clint paused. “All I could think about was if Laura and I hadn’t divorced, I wouldn’t have been in that damned bar to get roofied in the first place.”

Wanda looked startled. “Why did you not say you and Laura divorced?”

“Because it’s not anyone’s problem but mine,” Clint snapped.

“You were proud of being a husband and a father. Now all I can see is your distress. What happened?”

“Me choosing to help you instead of her and the kids and getting arrested for it was the last straw as far as Laura’s concerned.” He’d thought he and Laura had a good understanding about what being an Avenger meant to him, but he had told his now-ex-wife once he retired, he would not go rushing into danger. One phone call from Steve Rogers had changed that.

Wanda looked distressed at the news. “You did not argue?”

“Tried,” Clint said. “Laura’s the boss; arguing with her never got me anywhere. Didn’t see the point.” He shrugged. “She’s right: I broke a promise I made to her and the kids, and I have a history of doing that. The last time was once too many.” He did not dwell on the fact he had seen the way she had looked at her partner, Paul, who had formed the third part of their V-shaped triad.

The look Wanda gave him said he had been unsuccessful in hiding the emotion-filled memory. “Is that why you were in a Seattle bar?”

“No, I was in a bar in Seattle because someone who was a friend in S.H.I.E.L.D.’s IT department moved there to work for Amazon and wanted me to be in their wedding. Li couldn’t get a hold of me in time to tell me her girlfriend broke up with her and the wedding was cancelled, so I flew out there for nothing. Figured I might as well go for a drink and dance with some strangers, since I wasn’t due to fly back until mid-afternoon the next day.” Clint suspected Wanda had been sent to question him on behalf of the others, since he was less likely to snap at her. “As for why I’m leaving, since you will tell the others as soon as I’m gone: now I’ve spent six weeks trapped in a room, and don’t have to go save the world, I’d like to go somewhere else, so I’m not trapped in a room and being monitored for every move I make.”

Not surprised he had figured out her motivation, Wanda nodded. “Where are you going?”

“My place in the city for starters. After that, I don’t know.” He stepped closer and hugged her. “Stop worrying. I’ll be okay.” He thought about saying he was hard to kill now but stopped himself.

Wanda returned the hug, then looked at him, startled, showing she had heard his thought. “Do the others know yet?”

“No. I’d like to keep it that way for now. Please, Wanda. I don’t know enough about it yet.”

“Is that the real reason you’re leaving? To find out more from this Cory Raines you keep thinking about?”

“If he’s willing to talk, yes,” Clint admitted. “If he isn’t, then I guess I’ll find out other ways. But I can’t do it here with everyone watching.”

Wanda sighed. “Be careful. I promise I will not tell the others yet, but if it becomes necessary, I will. I dislike keeping secrets.”

Clint accepted the qualifier with a nod. “I’ll see you in two weeks.”

Clint then stepped into his car and started the engine. He caught sight of her waving goodbye in his rearview mirror as he backed out of his designated space. He did not see her move to meet Natasha and Steve at the door to the facility to report what she’d learned.

➳ ➳ ➳ ➳ ➳ ➳ ➳➳ ➳ ➳ ➳ ➳ ➳ ➳➳ ➳ ➳ ➳ ➳ ➳ ➳➳ ➳ ➳ ➳ ➳ ➳

A few hours later, Clint sat in his living room of his condo and took a better look at the weapons Cory had given him. The crossbow was a standard weight and type, but of an excellent quality and looked custom-made. The leather quiver was also well-crafted and, as Clint discovered, had a false bottom holding $400 in folded fifties, twenties, and tens. The arrows matched the high-quality bow and spoke of someone who wanted the most kinetic energy, deep penetration, and precision flight.

The sword, once out of its sheath, was – once Clint googled the image – like an archer’s sword from the 15th century, with a short leather-wrapped handle, a simple curved guard, and a three-foot length. From his experience learning how to wield swords in the circus, Clint knew what he held was no cheap replica, but a sword meant for killing other people. It had a good weight and balance and had been cared for since it lacked rust and the leather in the pommel was not cracked. He would have to go to buy supplies for sword maintenance and care. He had items that would do in a pinch, since Clint often carried a dagger as his backup weapon.

The cell phone Cory had given him was of the prepaid variety. A search of the call history had proven it was empty, as if Cory had either just bought it or was in the habit of clearing his call history. Clint bet it was the latter, since the model was not a new one, and the phone had been used, since the case showed wear.

He set aside the weapons and the cell phone. Grabbing his tablet, he accessed the information he had downloaded from the criminal databases accessible to the Avengers. His search had found a man matching Cory’s description and name, who the FBI had wanted for multiple, multi-state grand theft robberies. Said thief had been shot dead twenty years prior in a confrontation with police. The mug shot in the file resembled Cory. Clint was convinced it had been. The remarks on the FBI’s Most Wanted poster had named him as someone who thought himself to be a modern-day Robin Hood, which at least confirmed part of Cory’s story. Whether he was the actual first Robin Hood was something Clint could not confirm. The fact remained Cory was at least someone who understood what made up a good bow and set of arrows. Yet the niggling suspicion that Cory was who he said he was would not go away.

The problem was not that Clint didn’t believe Cory. He did, as far as the ‘can’t die easily and will heal’ part went. Clint had no scars on his ankle and given the way he had tested the distance on the chain, hoping to wear down the connection to the shackle, he should have had several. Just to be sure he had not dreamed it, he’d cut himself shaving just to see the cut heal in the mirror. The problem was that Clint did not know what to do with the fact he no longer bruised, and he worked with a very observant team of individuals who would notice such a thing – and who would very much want to know how Clint had gained this ability. Especially since Clint ignored bruises, minor cuts, and pulled muscles in favor of downplaying his injuries. Unless Clint was bleeding, having trouble focusing, or could not stand up, he would not make a fuss. He had been told enough times as a child to suck up the pain; it was too ingrained a habit to break.

For a moment, Clint allowed himself the luxury of panicking, but only a moment. As ingrained as not admitting to injury was, so was the notion he had no time to dwell on panic; the only way to get through whatever was happening to him was to handle the situation. Then he picked up his phone and dialed the number Cory had given him, noting again as he did that the card only listed “Cory Raines, Acquisitions” and a phone number with an area code Clint did not recognize. Clint did not bother emailing; what he wanted to know wasn’t anything he wanted to write down.

“Hello, you’ve reached my voicemail,” Cory said after five rings. “I’m not able to take your call now, but if you leave your name and number at the beep, I’ll get back to you.”

Abruptly reluctant to leave a message, not sure if he was making a mistake, Clint hesitated before saying, “This is Clint Barton. I have a few questions to ask you. Call me back at 555-555-5555.”

Clint hung up the phone and waited, hoping he had just missed Cory. He watched the time tick by before shaking himself; other things, other people occupied Cory’s time. Just what did an immortal thief steal, and how often did he not get caught? And how did he dispose of Marlene’s body?

He had time to go get a late lunch and run a load of laundry. “What can I do for you?” Cory’s tone radiated warmth and cheer.

“I got questions about this immortal thing.”

“Such as?” Cory prompted.

“What happened to Marlene?”

Cory was quiet a moment. “I buried her in one of the old cemeteries where no one checks the graves anymore. She was a friend once.”

That reassured Clint, though he could not name why. “And if she hadn’t been?”

“It wouldn’t be the first time I made a body disappear. There are places no one looks.”

Clint closed his eyes. He knew some places, both from his years traveling with the circus and from his time with S.H.I.E.L.D. “Yeah,” he acknowledged.

“Any other questions?”

“You mentioned a Game. What is it and what does the winner get?”

“The Game’s not something you want to play, Clint. Stay out of it as much as you can. You’ll live longer.”

“That doesn’t tell me what it is,” Clint shot back.

“It’s a duel to the death between immortals,” came the grim reply. “Winner gets the knowledge and power of the loser – the Quickening. Looks like a lightning storm, feels like you’re getting electrified, and if you have any doubts about who you are, you’ll lose that secondary fight.”

Clint stared at his phone, horrified by that answer. “So it’s not just one fight but two?”

“Yes.”

“Is that how you knew you’d need bolt cutters to free me?”

“Yes.” Cory let out a breath. “I don’t take heads often, but there are those of us who do. The headhunters will tell you the time of the Gathering is near, the only way to survive is to win, but frankly that’s a crock of shit. I’m not interested in seeing only one immortal left in this world, and most of my friends think the same way.”

“What’s a Gathering?”

“When all of the immortals in the world will receive an impulse to come together to fight each other for the final Prize – all of the knowledge and power of all of the immortals alive. A sizable number of us apparently didn’t get the memo or chose to ignore it, but enough of us did that there was a mini-Gathering in New York City in 1985.” Cory paused. “Connor MacLeod won that one.”

“How many people were involved?”

“Number I heard was about a thousand, and it happened all over the world, not just New York City. One of my friends lost a fight in Pakistan just before she was to fly to the States.”

“And you didn’t feel compelled to go?”

“Clint, I’m not a fan of being compelled to do anything,” Cory clarified. “I felt it; I just figured I didn’t feel like fighting or dying for some cause that was stupid the first time I heard it back in 1285.”

Clint stared at the phone, not sure he had heard that year right. “Did you say twelve eighty-five?”

“You heard me correctly,” Cory said. “I died in 1285; I was born in 1256. The sheriff of Nottingham is the one who cut me down from that damn tree where they hanged me and told me what I’m telling you now. You don’t have to die, and you don’t have to fight when you’re challenged.” Cory took a breath. “But you should know how to fight and how to win if you do.” He paused before adding, “And I’d be honored if you let me teach you. Unless you want someone more honorable?”

“What do you mean, more honorable?”

“You’re an Avenger who sided with Captain America over the Sokovia Accords,” Cory said.

Clint snorted. “Because they were shitty, and they wanted to put a teenager on permanent house arrest just because she is powerful enough to blow up shit with her mind. She’s a kid and a friend.” He paused and considered what Cory might mean by ‘more honorable’ in that context. “Does being more honorable in the Game mean you’re more likely to get yourself killed?”

“Sometimes,” Cory admitted.

“Then no, I don’t want someone like that. If you’re thinking I’m some never-done-wrong-shit kind of guy, you don’t know me. For that matter, you’ve bought into the myth that Captain America doesn’t have blood on his hands and is a perfect innocent. He’s not, by the way. As for me: I’ve stolen, I’ve lied, I’ve cheated, and I’ve killed people – some of it before I was paid by the government to do it. I’m an ex-carnie who got recruited by S.H.I.E.L.D. to be a sniper, spy, and occasionally, assassin.”

Cory was quiet a moment. “Are you saying you don’t have a problem being taught by a lifelong thief?” he queried cautiously.

Realizing that had been why Cory was hesitating, Clint barked a laugh. “No. You’ve lived, what, seven centuries? I can’t imagine you wouldn’t have had to do things in that time that other people were thought weren’t quite honorable. You must be doing something right to have managed to survive this long.”

Cory chuckled. “I think so, yes.” He sounded relieved that Clint understood.

“I have the next two weeks off,” Clint offered, sure that he would get more answers if they met in person. “Is there somewhere I can meet you? I’d love to learn from you. I’m in New York City right now.”

“Can you meet me? I’m in Rochester.”

“Sure, I can get there. When and where do you want me to meet you?”

Cory gave him the address and advice on where to park his car. “Don’t forget to bring the sword and your bow. If you want to keep the bow I gave you as a spare, feel free; I have others.”

“You sure about that?”

“Positive,” Cory said. “Now, pack a bag and tell your friends you’re taking a trip,” Cory advised. “Before they worry you’ve been kidnapped by a dead man.”

Clint grinned. “Oh, so you know you’re dead?”

“Of course,” Cory replied cheerfully. “How else was I supposed to start over without the FBI chasing me?”

Clint chuckled. “You could have just surrendered.”

“Oh no,” Cory said, sounding scandalized by the notion. “Then I’d never hear the end of it from Matthew.” He hung up before Clint could ask why or who Matthew was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the feedback so far!  
>  ~~I usually write a chapter ahead of what I post, and hope to have the next chapter ready to go by Friday night. :-)~~  
>  The sword I pictured Cory giving Clint is this one: https://www.reliks.com/functional-european-swords/archers-sword/  
> Also, is anyone placing bets on whether Natasha bugged Clint's car?


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the kudos and comments so far!

The address was an old, narrow, three-story brick building on the corner of two streets on the heart of downtown Rochester. He rounded the block a few times before he found the entrance to the paved parking lot behind the building, since a parked truck blocked part of it. A steel sign said the parking lot was reserved for patrons and residents of the building 24 hours a day, seven days a week. The only vehicle in the lot was a late-model navy blue SUV that bore New York plates. Seeing it was parked in the farthest space from the road, Clint parked to the right of it.

The three back doors Clint found were all marked “Private – No Access,” so Clint walked around to the street side. The building’s retail space was occupied by a coffee shop, now closed; the posted hours showed it closed at six p.m. Clint mourned the lost opportunity for more coffee, but quickly found the separate, heavily secured and monitored, red-painted door to the upstairs space, which was to the right of the coffee shop’s front door. A pictogram indicated the coffee was to the left. Clint grinned briefly at the sight. A secured mailbox hung to the right of the red door, along with a sign stating, “Private Residence – No Public Access and No Solicitors.” The sense of distinct ‘other’ Clint was coming to associate with immortals made him certain he was in the right place, but he rang the doorbell anyway.

Cory opened the door instantly, as if he had been waiting for Clint to arrive. “Come in,” Cory invited.

Clint shouldered his duffel bag and stepped inside. The vestibule was wide enough for two people. A few steps into the space stood an ornately carved door. Cory held it open long enough for Clint to see it had a thickness consistent with a fire-rated door and a deadbolt and a keyed doorknob.

“Investment property?” Clint followed Cory up the single flight of stairs.

Cory flashed a grin. “Yes. I won it in a poker game about forty years ago. I was living here before I headed west, but I rented it out before then.”

Just past the stairs were the keypad and video screen for the alarm system, a coat closet, and then the space opened. Off to Clint’s right was a kitchen, living, and dining room combination, with an island breakfast bar/sink. The kitchen was a typical upscale apartment kitchen; Clint only recognized it as such since his ex-wife, Laura, had wanted one like it. The table in the dining room seated four but could expand to seat six, given two extra matching chairs against the wall.

The arched windows lining the grand room were ample and large, but the view was less than stellar, since it consisted primarily of the surrounding buildings and streets. The windows all opened and had screens. Clint automatically calculated the height and figured they opened all the way. Colorful printed and thermal backed curtains kept out any drafts. Out of respect to his host, Clint did not open the windows, but he tucked the curtain he had pulled back into place.

The rear right corner held a staircase, which led out to a fire escape and down to the second floor. The part of Clint that had grown to despise not knowing where the exits where in a building breathed easy now he knew where they were. Cory said nothing as Clint explored the space. When he glanced at his host, abruptly embarrassed he was taking so much time, Cory was not upset or surprised.

When Clint finished looking around, Cory asked, “Have you had dinner? I’m a decent cook, but I warn you now it’s not anything gourmet.”

“Grabbed a burger on the way up,” Clint replied. “I’m mostly a pizza and burgers kind of guy. What’s on the second floor?”

“Used to be a yoga studio. Switched out the glass to frosted so I could use it for workouts and not scare the office workers across the street,” Cory said. “This is home.”

“I thought you lived in Gold Bar or the surrounding area,” Clint remarked, taking the moment to look over the expansive apartment even further. The furniture was not the crazy ultra-modern-hard-to-sit-in kind, but a more classic, comfortable style, with a mix of wood, leather, and earth-toned fabric. A flat-screen TV on a dark-wood console served as the focal point for the large sofa and side chairs. Clint knew little about art beyond what he had seen in museums, but the paintings hanging on the walls looked like classic painters’ works. The atmosphere of the apartment was warm and welcoming, but Clint also noticed a straight path to the nearest exit in any direction was unobstructed.

Cory grinned. “I have a few homes scattered around the country,” he said. “I was going to live in Gold Bar; that’s why I was looking at that house again instead of just letting it continue being a rental.”

Clint grimaced at the reminder. “I hope you burned it down.”

“I considered it, since she had her other victim’s bodies in one bedroom,” Cory told him. “As much as I like explosions, I don’t need that kind of attention. Better to abandon the property.”

“Did you report it to the police?”

“I put in an anonymous tip. I’m listed on the paperwork as Corin Green, owner’s agent; the house is owned by a corporation that only exists on paper. If anyone asks, I will tell them I found you, was horrified by what I found, and panicked. You tracked me down, since you have all those Avengers resources, and wanted to be sure I knew you were okay.”

Clint looked at Cory, amused. “Good to know; I’ll back you up on that.”

Cory grinned. “Since I noticed you checking out the exits: secret back door is through the master bathroom closet and leads into the studio. From there you can get to the parking lot. Both fire escapes will set off alarms that notify a professional security response company, who will call the police if they can’t get a hold of me. The only cameras here are on the front and fire escape doors. Roof access is through the pantry and requires a passcode.”

“Got it,” Clint said. “Let me guess: the passcode is your birth year or the year you died the first time.”

Cory’s grin widened. “No, actually, it’s 267946 for my birth name, Corwin.” He then gestured, mimicking a half-bow. “Corwin a’Green at your service, sir. Here to make sure the poor get fed so they can harvest the crops as the lord requires.”

Clint’s eyes widened. Even Cory’s accent had changed, making him sound much more English and less American Midwest. Now, Clint could believe he had been the real Robin Hood. “Who was the sheriff of Nottingham?”

“His name is and always has been Matthew, and his favorite occupation is ‘lawman,’” Cory told him, and Clint understood Cory’s earlier remark from when they’d been talking on the phone. “He was born Matthew of Salisbury. He was a knight killed in a jousting tournament. I was his first student, and he’ll be the first to tell you I have been a royal pain in his ass all these years. He sees me as his son.”

Clint studied the older immortal. “Can immortals have children?”

Cory met his gaze. “Not biological ones.” His tone was blunt.

Clint closed his eyes. He had known for years he was infertile, had opened his marriage so Laura could have her dream of children, and had loved the kids as if they were his own. It did not stop the sting of knowing this facet of immortality. “For a while I thought it was because I’d gotten beat up as a kid. Doctor we saw said it wasn’t that, but he could never explain why.” He let out a breath. “Laura wanted kids, and she fell in love with someone while I was out on a nine-month mission for S.H.I.E.L.D. I didn’t want to lose her, so I told her I was okay opening our marriage to include him and him only. Paul’s a good guy; he’s the reason the farm hasn’t suffered with me being gone so much.” Clint took another breath. “We have three kids.” Clint looked at Cory. “And I still think they’re mine.”

“I’ve raised a few myself; you can’t stop loving them, no matter what,” Cory said with a knowing smile. “Matthew was still within a mortal lifetime when he found me and taught me; he says if he’d been older, he wouldn’t have been as tempted to claim me as his son. Don’t tell him I said this, but I’m glad he has; I didn’t have a father growing up.” He paused before asking, “Have you told your wife and her partner?”

Clint shook his head. “I haven’t talked to them or the kids since the divorce was final in November. I was supposed to call them at Christmas, but I spent Christmas chained up in that damned house. I…don’t know if I can. What the hell could I say? Sorry I missed Christmas; I got kidnapped? Oh, and I died? Better they think I was too busy doing other things; they’re used to that excuse.”

“You’ll talk to them when you’re ready,” Cory said. “Take the first bedroom to your left; get settled, unpack. Then we’ll see if I can answer all the questions you haven’t asked yet. You prefer beer or wine or hard liquor?”

“Beer, but if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather be sober when you tell me what I need to know.”

“Water, then.” The change of drink did not upset Cory. “But we’ll go drinking before you go.”

Clint nodded and went to put his bag in the guest bedroom. A heavyweight quilt in a colorful diamond pattern covered the queen-sized bed. A six-drawer dresser with a mirror and two nightstands completed the furniture. The door next to the built-in closet was the connection to a bathroom, which had a claw foot tub with a shower and a flamingo-patterned shower curtain. Clint was amused to see that while the flamingos covered the important parts, the topmost part of the shower curtain was see-through. The bathroom had been stocked with toilet paper, a set of bright yellow towels, and a small assortment of hotel-brand toiletries. The bathroom also had an opaque-glass window large enough to climb through.

Having completed his survey, Clint took the time to unpack what he had brought. Once he finished, he checked his phone.

 _Where are you?_ The text was from Natasha.

 _Visiting a friend,_ Clint typed back. _And I know you; you stuck a tracking bug on my car, so you know where I am._

_What the hell is in Rochester that’s so damn important?_

Clint dialed her number using video calling but made sure the only thing she saw was the plain back wall of the bedroom. “Worried about me?”

“You were gone, and now you’re gone again,” Natasha said. She sat in one of the smaller conference rooms of the Avengers training facility. Instinct told Clint she wasn’t as alone as she was pretending to be, but he would have been more surprised to know she was alone.

“You okay?”

Clint blew out a breath. “Not really,” he admitted. “As I told Wanda this morning, I need to be elsewhere. I…haven’t processed everything.”

Natasha looked concerned. “You think not being among friends is better?”

That stung as Natasha intended, but Clint had his pride and years of knowing just how his friend and combat partner operated. She wielded words as weapons as part of her skillset. “Would you rather I didn’t take the time to process?” Clint countered. “You know if I don’t, I'll wind up paying for it later.”

Natasha arched an eyebrow. “You’re listening to the shrinks this time?”

“Because they have a point. I’m not in my twenties anymore, Natasha. I’m 48. I can’t get away with the same shit I used to.”

Natasha eyed him. He waited her out, aware she read his body language better than anyone he’d ever known. Finally, she said, “All right. But be careful, Clint. The last time you went away, none of us could find you where you’d gone. None of us like you were hurt.”

“I know, ‘Tash. But I need this,” he said.

“What should I tell Laura?”

“Anything but the truth,” Clint said at once.

“She knows you were kidnapped; Steve didn’t think it was right to lie to her, and I agreed. Laura blames herself for giving you an ultimatum. She wasn’t expecting you to sign the divorce papers. She thought you’d fight her more.”

Clint closed his eyes. He had had time to process the heartache, chained up as he had been, and thought himself ready to move on. This news reopened that wound. “What the hell does she want me to do? What she wanted seemed clear, so I signed.”

“You should talk to her, but I convinced Steve you should be the one to call Laura and tell her you’re safe.”

Clint pressed a fist to his mouth and looked away from the screen. He still loved Laura, but he thought they were over. “I can’t deal with her, Natasha. We keep fighting over the same old shit, which is my job. Whenever I get back home, she says I’m in the wrong for doing the right thing instead of putting her and the kids first, and I’m sick of it.” He returned his gaze to the screen, certain his best friend would talk to his ex-wife. “I won’t call her right now; my friend’s expecting me. I’ll be back in two weeks unless you or Steve call me and say I’m needed.”

Mouth tightening in an unhappy line, Natasha nodded her acceptance and disconnected the video call.

Feeling relieved, Clint moved to the living room. He found Cory seated on the sofa, a pair of water glasses on the coffee table.

“Have a seat,” Cory invited, so Clint chose the side chair. “Tomorrow morning, we’ll go through what you know about using a sword, and I have tricks to show you,” Cory told him. “Tonight, we’ll talk. What else do you want to know?”

Clint considered. “How have you survived without people discovering what you are?”

“Friends, luck, and being willing to change identities and move,” Cory replied. “It hasn’t always worked out. A few lovers freaked out and called me a demon or worse. Though,” he shrugged, grinning at the memory, “in 1926, two friends of mine and I made a game out of robbing and dying and being dug up, all across the US.” He grimaced. “Duncan MacLeod held a grudge for seventy years over that. Amanda and I thought it was funny.”

Clint stared at him. “Didn’t anyone catch on to the fact you didn’t stay dead?”

Cory grinned and leaned back in his chair. “Oh, yeah. But they couldn’t figure out how, mind you. Some of the papers called us witches. One of my favorites said we’d conspired with black magic.”

“You weren’t afraid of exposing immortality to the world?”

Cory shook his head. “If you look back at the whole thing, you can put together the pieces. Nobody was back then.” He paused. “I’m told there was a database of immortals that was released in the early days of the Internet, but someone I trust says it’s been removed.”

“Who created that kind of database?” Clint questioned, surprised something like it would even exist.

Cory half-smiled. “We have our own fans or stalkers, depending on your point of view – people called Watchers, who belong to an organization based in Lyon, France. They’re supposed to only record the history of immortals, to observe and not to interfere in our business.”

Shocked but aware that people needed to record everything, Clint drawled, “I’m gonna guess some of them don’t abide by that rule.”

Cory nodded. “I had one attack me about twenty years ago, convinced I’d blown up Richie Ryan and hurt him permanently.”

“Had you blown him up?”

“Yes, but he survived,” Cory said, “and that incident was years before that Watcher attacked me.”

“This Richie…he’s not dead now?”

“No,” Cory confirmed. “He’s one of my best friends; I owe him for helping me out last year. As for the Watcher, I wound up having him arrested for assault. A Watcher is easy enough to spot – they all wear the same trefoil tattoo, on their wrist or ankle. My arrangement with anyone the Watchers assigns me now is: leave me alone and stay a hundred feet away, and I won’t report them for stalking.”

“How’d you manage that?”

“Found the one that wasn’t doing as good of a job pretending not to pay attention to what I was doing and told him to pass along the message,” Cory said with a shrug. “Seems to be working; they’ve left me alone for the last fifteen years.”

Clint considered. “So not all of them are bad.” He thought a moment longer. “But what about the immortals who are murderers, rapists, or worse? It sounds like the Watchers are oath-bound to do nothing.”

Cory nodded. “Yeah, that’s why some of them wanted us dead – all they were seeing were the worst examples of us.” He paused. “Immortals are people, too, Clint. We just live longer, and that includes people I wish had stayed dead the first time. One of the worst was known as the Kurgan. He was a Russian headhunter. I ran into him in England in 1959 and escaped by throwing myself off a cliff into the ocean.” Cory shuddered at the memory.

“Is he still alive?”

Cory shook his head. “Connor MacLeod took his head. The Kurgan was a large part of the reason there was a mini-Gathering in 1985. The Kurgan had sought out so many of us, fought, and won against them. Not very many of us are left who are older than a few thousand years old.”

Clint blinked at that number. “A thousand? Wait, you’re almost eight hundred, so that’s not out of probability. So, who is the oldest?”

“Methos, but he’s been a myth for so long I’m convinced the only people who might know if he’s still alive are the MacLeods and they’re not telling.” Cory lifted his shoulders, unconcerned. “I asked Richie, who is their student, and he laughed and said the only Methos he’d ever known was one who was preaching a ‘lay down your sword and live in peace’ philosophy. Richie said he bought the lie for a few days and almost lost his head.”

“How old is Methos supposed to be?”

“At least five thousand, but I’ve heard other people say he’s ten thousand,” Cory said. “I can’t imagine what that feels like. Some days I wake up and I feel like I’ve been transported into some weird universe where nothing makes sense.” He grinned. “But I’ll take it anyway.” More slowly, he said, “The biggest challenge in living is finding something you enjoy and being willing to learn, repeatedly – languages, customs, laws, finance, everything. I’ve been a thief most of my life, but I’ve also been a sheep farmer, a blacksmith, and now a real estate investor.”

Clint digested this information for several minutes before speaking again. “If immortals can’t have children, how are new immortals born?”

“No one knows for sure. I’ve heard if someone dies and the Quickening isn’t claimed, a new immortal will be born that night. Not sure if I believe that one. We’re all orphans. Not all of us know we were adopted, so if you grew up with a sibling, you’re one who didn’t know.”

“I wondered; Barney – my older brother – said our father wasn’t my father, and that our mom wasn’t my mom, but I always thought he was full of shit. You’re saying he probably wasn’t?”

Cory nodded. “Where’s your brother now?”

“Dead in a prison riot.” Clint waved off Cory’s look of sympathy. “He was a bastard who hated I could shoot better than him, and cruel for it. We parted ways when I realized he and our mentors in the circus were planning on fleecing an entire small town.”

“Yeah, that is a problem,” Cory agreed. “One or two people’s one thing, but townspeople have longer memories than you might expect.”

Clint eyed the other man. “Learned that the hard way?”

Cory chuckled. “Yeah. Let me tell you – getting hanged again was not fun a second time.”

“What did you do?”

“Tried to sell them on a lost treasure,” Cory admitted. “Problem was I didn’t verify where the ‘X’ might be, and it turned out to be the lord’s house. When I came back around thirty years later, people still talked about the one time some idiot tried to scam the town into tearing down the lord’s house for a treasure.”

Clint winced. “You thought they’d forget?”

“People don’t remember faces well,” Cory pointed out. “I was also a lot younger then and didn’t check things as well as I should have.”

Clint nodded. “I can see that. There’s stuff I did when I first joined S.H.I.E.L.D. that I wouldn’t do now – I was so intent on proving I could do anything they assigned me, I didn’t always think about what it would mean later. Like they tried to say just because I did something when I was a recruit, I’d be willing to do it a decade later.”

“Were you?” Cory wondered.

Clint shook his head. “Not always.” He shifted position in this chair and leaned forward. “You said you don’t play the Game. Why not?”

“Because I don’t care who wins. When someone does, I’ll be long dead before then,” Cory said with a shrug and took a drink of water. “I’m more interested in living. If I can’t run, can’t hide, can’t pass off the challenge to a friend of mine, can’t negotiate a trade, then I have no choice: I have to fight. And I like living too damn much to lose.”

“So why do others play the Game?”

“Power. Enough to control the way the world works, for good or evil,” Cory said quietly.

Clint stared, and added up what he knew. “That…sounds like a hell of incentive to make sure someone evil doesn’t win.”

Cory nodded. “It’s what drives the MacLeods.” He looked at Clint. “You might already have an advantage: you already know why you fight. My last student never figured that one out.”

“How long did he survive?”

“Three years. He was a headstrong idiot who was convinced I was wrong about everything.”

Clint looked at the time and realized it was getting late. “I’m sure I’ll have more questions over the next few days, but one last question for tonight. If I was alone and was challenged, what should I do?”

“Planning on walking around the neighborhood?”

“Just thinking aloud, but it was an option,” Clint said.

“Run,” Cory advised. “Especially if you walked out without a sword or your bow, because right now –” Faster than Clint was expecting, Cory rose and, using his right hand, pretended to hold a knife to Clint’s throat. “You’re dead.”

Clint did not think; he reacted and grabbed Cory’s arm, pushing it back. Cory grinned, and revealed he had held a dagger in his left hand. “And that’s why I win.” With ease, Cory stuck the dagger back in his sheath.

Clint let him go, realizing that Cory had baited him. “Noted.” He met Cory’s eyes. “And thanks. I should get sleep; I’ve been up since 5 AM.”

“If you shower or run a bath, run the hot water all you want,” Cory told him. “I put in a tankless water heater some years ago, so it won’t ever get cold. Breakfast at 6:30?”

“Sounds good,” Clint agreed. “See you then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback welcome!


	5. Chapter 5

“What’s at that address in Rochester?” Steve examined the data from the tracker as Natasha sat next to him in the conference room.

“Coffee shop that appears to cater to the downtown business workers on the first floor,” Natasha said. “Second floor used to be a yoga studio and gym, but it’s been closed for three years. No permits on file for renovation since 2008. Third floor is residential, and Ramsey Hood is the owner. Locksley Green, Inc. owns the building. Company has a New Orleans address and a Louisiana registration. Agent of record for said company is Corin Green, who is also the owner agent on that house in Gold Bar matching Clint’s description where the local police found the skeletons and the room with the shackle and chain.”

Steve looked at her. “You think this Corin Green and Ramsey Hood are the same person?”

“Considering Corin Green was reported ‘missing, maybe dead’ two days ago, I’d say yes, since the name Clint gave us for his rescuer – Cory Raines – is also someone who’s dead. I’m not a big believer in coincidences.” Worry filled Natasha’s face. “Clint’s with someone who he says rescued him, but who isn’t honest about who he is. What does he have on Clint?”

“Something to do with his kids?”

Natasha pressed her lips in a thin line. “Maybe. He missed Christmas and his birthday.”

Steve studied her a moment longer, certain she knew something about Clint she would not share. “You think it’s something worth pissing him off for?” he asked. “Way he looked when I picked him up, I’d say he earned time without us poking and prodding him for answers. He was chained up for some woman’s demented fantasy. Given the same situation, I’d have nightmares and want to be somewhere else.”

“He already has problems with being locked up.” The former Russian spy and assassin sighed. “If it was anyone else, I’d let this go, but trouble finds Clint when he’s just sitting still.”

“And would he appreciate a rescue?” For all the time he had spent with Clint, getting to know him, Natasha understood him better, and Steve respected the bond they shared.

“No.” She met Steve’s gaze. “I can’t shake the sense he’s hiding something big.”

“He didn’t tell us everything that happened in that house,” Steve pointed out. “Maybe he needs to go ask the owner about something he found. I know it’s second nature for you to look for angles, but maybe you’re overthinking this one?”

Natasha cleared the screen of her research results and conceded Steve’s point. “Maybe.”

He patted her shoulder and suggested, “Let’s go blow off some of that frustration. I’ll meet you in the gym. If after that you still think he needs help, I will suggest you reconsider.”

“Is that an order from my captain?” Natasha asked.

Steve smiled. “No, because I know you’ll do what you want regardless and tell me I should talk about what I’d do for my best friend. I’m hoping you’ll be tired enough when we’re done that you won’t rush out of here. You’d do the same for me.”

Natasha chuckled, nodded acknowledgement, and rose. “Give me fifteen minutes.”

➳ ➳ ➳ ➳ ➳ ➳ ➳➳ ➳ ➳ ➳ ➳ ➳ ➳➳ ➳ ➳ ➳ ➳ ➳ ➳➳ ➳ ➳ ➳ ➳ ➳

After breakfast and after insisting Clint change clothes, Cory led Clint down to the former yoga studio. Clint had changed into sweatpants, an old S.H.I.E.L.D. t-shirt, and sneakers. Cory wore paint-splattered jeans, a dark green tunic that hung over his hips, a black leather vest, and was barefoot. Cory also carried a duffel bag. He set the duffel bag on the floor, its contents clinking as he did so, and unzipped it to reveal assorted swords, daggers, and other weapons.

“One thing I forgot to mention: you do not owe me anything for this week or the next, and that includes meals and anything I give you,” Cory said.

“But you’re putting up with me,” Clint said, surprised.

“And you’re now my student, which means I have obligations to provide you with shelter, food, any clothing you might need, and any weapons you might use. If you think you need to pay someone – call me when you have your first student and we’ll talk them.”

“You make it sound like you expect me to have one,” Clint said.

Cory laughed. “Live long enough and it’s not a question of ‘if’ but ‘when’. Now, before you worry about the hardwood floor here, it’s a coated wood. We’ll mop up when we’re done.”

“Expecting blood?”

“Yours and mine,” Cory said with a shrug. “I don’t pretend what we’re doing is ‘only practice.’ You do that kind of shit often enough, you won’t be ready when it is real.”

Clint nodded. “Yeah, I know that one.”

“That said, nobody is dying permanently here. Agreed?”

“Agreed. Is that why you said wear I didn’t mind getting bloodied and cut up?

“The Murphy’s rule of a duel between immortals is that the day you’re dressed nicely is the day for a fight unless you planned to meet.”

“You can do that?”

Cory nodded. “A lot of duels are at dawn, though it’s becoming harder to find an unlit alley or somewhere that doesn’t have 24/7 video surveillance.”

“Got it,” Clint said, understanding. “So where can you fight?”

“Anywhere you think no one will notice. Richie told me he fought in a park in the daytime about ten years ago and everyone thought he and his opponent were just practicing for a renaissance fair. When they realized they were drawing a crowd, Richie and his opponent agreed to resume their fight another day.”

“Did they?”

Cory grinned. “He didn’t say.” He pulled out his favorite English broadsword and assumed a ready position. “All right, let’s start.”

As he had suspected, Clint already knew how to use a sword, and to parry, thrust, and counter. Cory stepped up the fight, needing to know if Clint knew more complex countermoves. He soon discovered his new student fought as if he would not get another chance. Clint’s face revealed little as he fought, making it harder for Cory to predict what he would do.

Pulling out his hideout dagger from his vest, Cory executed a classic maneuver. Clint blocked the sword strike, but did not protect his chest, enabling Cory to stab him in the heart with the dagger. With a groan, Clint clutched his chest with his free hand, and crumpled to the floor.

Cory waited for the younger man to revive. It did not take long. With a gasp, Clint revived, and stood up shakily. He took a moment to find his balance before reaching back down to grab the sword he had dropped as he died. “Okay. Fighting dirty is allowed. What kind of fighting dirty is not honorable?”

“Shooting someone with a pistol and then taking their head,” Cory told him. “Modern weapons – meaning no pistols, rifles, cannons, grenades, lasers, etc. – is considered cheating.”

Clint eyed his new teacher. “Have you done that?”

“No, but I have shot people, with bow and arrow and with a gun, and run away, multiple times,” Cory replied. “Or trapped them so they couldn’t run after me. I don’t enjoy killing people.”

“What else is not honorable?” Clint asked, stepping over to the duffel bag to see if he could even the number of weapons he carried.

“Using other, less experienced immortals to fight you and wear you down so by the time you face the real challenger, you don’t have the stamina to win.”

Clint frowned. “Do those other immortals know they’re cannon fodder?”

Cory shook his head. “Not usually.”

“But you don’t do that?”

“No,” Cory said, insulted. “I’m not a headhunter, and that’s straight from their playbook. So is using other people, including other immortals, as bait so you have to fight. It does not, however, include asking a friend to fight on your behalf. Stealing the Quickening after they’ve fought – well, some people think it’s rude and tacky.”

“Doesn’t that put you in debt to that person you fought for?” Clint wondered.

“Depends on the friend,” Cory admitted. “I stole a Quickening because I didn’t want Amanda having that bastard in her head; she stole one in return for the same reason.”

Clint found a dagger he liked and returned to a ready position. “What about poisons?”

“Not cool,” Cory told him. “Even I consider that cheating.”

“But people do it,” Clint surmised, and waited for Cory’s nod before he launched an attack that proved he knew what he was doing with a second blade. Grinning, Cory flowed through the counterattack. Clint countered, and then they were in a true fight.

Cory fought as if his life were on the line, and both men were not averse to throwing the occasional punch or kick. Blood dripped to the floor as Clint got in a slice across Cory’s arm, but Cory had feinted, allowing Clint to take that strike in favor of getting close enough to trap Clint. Clint was forced to choose – drop his sword or retreat. He chose retreat, dropping his sword, rolling out of the way, and grabbing the first thing that came to hand, which turned out to be one of the yoga mats Cory kept against the wall. He tried using it as a shield. Cory sliced through it, forced Clint to his knees, and put his sword within inches of Clint’s throat.

Both men stepped back. As he rose to his feet, Clint did not take his eyes off Cory, his face wary and calculating. For a moment, the older immortal wondered if he had taken the fight too far.

“Damn, where the hell did you learn that?” Clint sounded impressed. “Show me how you did that last set of moves. That was slick.”

Feeling relieved but not allowing the relief to show, Cory walked him through the defense, which relied on the fact that people as tall as he and Clint hit higher on the body and were less likely to defend areas below the waist. “Who taught you how to use a sword?”

“His name was Jacques Duquesne, but he called himself the Swordsman,” Clint said. “He taught me and Barney a few months after we joined the circus, along with Buck Chisholm, who performed as Trick Shot. The Swordsman’s act used me as the opener, but when it was clear I was much better at archery, Trick Shot took me instead.” Clint looked at his new teacher. “S.H.I.E.L.D. had me cross-train with some martial artists; through them I also learned stick fighting and improved my knife skills. One of my bows converts to a staff.”

“Ah, I see,” Cory said. He met Clint’s eyes. “But you still have more questions.”

Clint studied him. “You don’t have to say it, but I’m sure you’ve used a bow to take out the insistent headhunters, the ones who won’t take ‘no, I’m not playing the Game’ for an answer, and killed them. It’s splitting hairs since it’s not a ‘modern’ weapon, but you don’t give a damn because you’re alive and they aren’t.”

Cory inclined his head. “Rarely, but yes. We immortals live and die by our reputations; the immortal grapevine is efficient. You’re one of the few who know I can fight. Most of the rest think I prank people, blow shit up, and rob banks.”

“And you’d do anything to keep that fiction going?” Clint tensed, as if he was expecting a blow.

Cory gave him a look. “Not quite. I won’t take your head, if that’s what you’re implying. I like you, Clint. Someday, I might piss you off enough you’ll want to see me dead, but I don’t want to see you permanently dead.”

“Why?”

Cory met his gaze. “Because you’re willing to do something I won’t: save the world. That makes you a hero.”

Clint’s body posture relaxed somewhat. “And you don’t consider yourself a hero?”

“Not since I realized I wasn’t robbing the rich anymore, and hadn’t been for quite some time,” Cory said somberly. “Come on, let’s walk you through another move.”

➳ ➳ ➳ ➳ ➳ ➳ ➳➳ ➳ ➳ ➳ ➳ ➳ ➳➳ ➳ ➳ ➳ ➳ ➳ ➳➳ ➳ ➳ ➳ ➳ ➳

By the end of the week, Clint was sore, even with immortal healing. Cory warned him that his recovery time would be slower until he took his first Quickening. Clint was not eager to learn what that was like. He had already more than his share of nightmares and PTSD from the missions he had been on, plus the damage he had caused when he had been under Loki’s mind control. Cory made sure Clint had the proper focus for fighting, warning him that taking a Quickening needed an absolute level of control. While Cory was drilling him on various sword maneuvers, he was asking him questions or cracking jokes or telling him random stories about where he was back in the day, distracting him. For every good hit Clint struck on Cory, Clint spilled more blood and died multiple times.

Cory also took the time to show him how to fight with a sword when he was using his bow as his primary weapon. Clint already knew how to switch between a bow and a staff, since one of his bows could convert to a staff for close quarters combat. Accustomed to using a dagger as a backup weapon, Clint also had never been above using a bow string as an improvised garrote, but Cory took Clint’s knowledge a step further.

“You’re overthinking this,” Cory told him, watching him struggle to remove his sword from its sheath and shift his bow to his back. “You told me you’ve carried both a rifle and a bow in combat. Ever tangled your bow with the tip of your rifle?”

“Yes – oh, duh, fuck, got it,” Clint said in sudden comprehension. “If I use my left hand to shift the bow like this –” he slung the bow over his back, “– and then draw the sword –” he went through the motion “– I won’t destroy my bow.”

“Perfect,” Cory said. “Except you forgot one important thing.”

“What’s that?”

“You can drop the damned bow,” Cory pointed out.

Clint chuckled ruefully. “I’m too used to thinking I got a custom-made weapon I can’t lose.”

Cory looked at him, his expression chiding. “I lost my first longbow diving into a ravine,” he said. “I cried, because I’d kept it in decent shape for seventy-three years, and I didn’t have the money or tools to replace it, and it was the last bow I’d had before I died the first time. Matthew got his teacher to make me a new one, since she had the talent and the knowledge. I lost that one too, less than thirty years later. I still don’t know who was more upset – him or me. You’ll lose a lot of shit over time, Clint. Not saying you won’t have anything like it – the English longbow I got five years ago is as good as I remember them being – but that’s –”

“Just a thing,” Clint finished, nodding. “Got it.” He let out a breath before adding, “Remind me, though, to show you the custom recurve bow and quiver I have.”

Cory laughed. “I’ve seen the clips of you using it. It’s a damn fine thing, and I wouldn’t pass up a chance to shoot it. Point is, Clint, you have to give up things if you live. I’d rather lose all my weapons than lose my head.”

“Agreed.” Clint understood his teacher was not an unarmed and unprepared immortal, but who had cultivated a reputation for being one. “What else?”

“Like I said earlier in the week: fight dirty. People expect me to be nothing more than a prankster and bank robber who doesn’t carry a sword.”

Clint stared. “You don’t carry a sword?”

“Or a dagger or a knife or bow and arrow or a bag full of explosives or is prepared to fight with improvised weapons,” Cory ticked off the list, grinning wider with each addition. “People remember I pranked them or a friend of theirs or asked them to fight on my behalf. I don’t talk about who taught me or I can fight. Do others know you fight with a bow that converts to a staff?”

“It’s in the leaked S.H.I.E.L.D. files on the Internet, and there’s video of the fight at the airport floating around when we all fought each other.” Clint grimaced at the memory. “That was not fun. I was not expecting to fight the king of Wakanda, let alone someone who was wearing full-body vibranium armor.”

“Is it bulletproof?” Cory looked intrigued.

Clint nodded. “Also absorbs sound waves, vibrations, and kinetic energy, so it gets stronger the more you try to strike it. I wouldn’t recommend trying to get some, since it’s illegal to own unless you have specific license from Wakanda to have it.”

The speculative look on Cory’s face disappeared. “Yeah, not going to go there. Last time a king wanted me dead, I wound up losing everything I cared about, including my life, my country, and most of my friends and family.”

“When was that?”

“When I was Robin Hood,” Cory said flatly. “What I’m trying to say is that reputation matters among immortals. We’re all horrible gossips because we can’t talk to anyone else about what it’s like to live a long life and have to fight with swords. The moment it becomes known Hawkeye is immortal, you’ll have people looking at how you fight. And because you’re an Avenger, people will assume you fight a certain way.” 

Clint’s eyes widened. “That’s why you said you could spare me this sword. You start from the assumption you won’t have _any_ weapons but what you can steal from your opponent.”

Cory grinned. “Not quite. I have at least one knife or dagger on me, often two. But yes, I start from there, because as Matthew taught me, you’re more likely to be without a weapon than with one. I grew up when having a sword of that quality was something only the rich could afford. Even Matthew couldn’t get me one without having to wait until we were out of Nottingham and could pay a swordsmith to make me one, which was several months later.”

“Got it,” Clint said. He glanced at his watch. “And I hate to say this, but my stomach is reminding me that breakfast was a long time ago.”

Cory grinned. “Go shower and change; we’ll go to a pub not far away for dinner and I’ll buy you that drink I’ve been promising you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please keep the comments coming - I love to know what you think! :-)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning: this got long, and that canon-typical violence tag rears its head here.  
> Also, I do like Laura, but I'm of the opinion that sometimes you wind up loving the person who's there for you the most, poly or not, and my head canon says Clint was gone a lot.

It took the two men about fifteen minutes to walk to the British-themed pub. The host greeted Cory with easy familiarity, calling him ‘Brad’ and welcoming him back. She then led the way to a table in the middle of the pub’s dining area and gave them menus. The pub was already full.

“Come here often?” Clint teased.

“Apparently,” Cory said with a chuckle. “Sometimes it’s easier not to cook for one person.”

“Yeah,” Clint agreed. “I’m glad you can cook; I can boil water and make mac and cheese, but not much else.” He perused the menu, noticing Cory did not look at it, and guessed he already knew what he wanted.

“Practice,” Cory replied. “I’ve spent too many years where someone else cooking for me was not a choice.”

“Hi, I’m Tami and I’ll be your server tonight,” a young woman said as she stepped up to their table and placed down coasters. “What can I get you two?”

Both men ordered beer off the draft menu and the house special burgers, which were cheeseburgers with blue cheese and applewood smoked bacon. It did not take long for their orders to be delivered.

Cory waited until Clint had eaten several bites of his burger and a drink of beer before asking, “Have you called your ex-wife yet?”

Clint scowled. “Was hoping you wouldn’t ask.”

“Your friends might have already told her,” Cory pointed out, and took a bite of his burger.

“Anyone ever tell you you’re a meddler?”

“You’re not going to be completely focused without dealing with what’s happened to you, and that includes your ex-wife,” Cory said. “Take it from a master of running away: shit catches up to you, often when you least want it to.”

“Can we talk about something else? I don’t want to lose my appetite,” Clint requested. “Like why you have a great big TV you never watch?”

Cory raised his glass in silent acknowledgement. “I got out of the habit of watching,” he admitted. “I stopped paying for cable when I planned to leave here. Didn’t think about calling and getting it hooked back up.”

“That’s all?”

“You expect something more?”

“Well, you usually have better stories than that,” Clint observed.

Cory chuckled. “Give me a minute and I can come up with one,” he offered.

“Nah, it’s okay. You answered my question.” Clint ate more of his burger and wiped his hands before sipping his beer. “What are we doing tomorrow?”

“A friend of mine claims she has something in a museum here; I promised her I’d look,” Cory replied. His green eyes gleamed with mischief. His smile widened as he added, “Amanda still hasn’t quite grasped anything that was hers once doesn’t permanently belong to her.”

Clint raised an eyebrow at that. “You’ve mentioned her a few times. She like us?”

“Yes, but much older and more ruthless than me for something she wants. She’s charming, a thief since childhood, smart, and beautiful. She also has been responsible for me fighting to protect her, even though we both know she’s not helpless.” He smiled ruefully. “Amanda knows my buttons and plays them like a fiddle. She’s left me holding the bag more than once. I’ve gotten arrested at least half a dozen times just because of her. She’s also a con artist, deadly with a fan, and dangerous when bored.”

Clint studied the other man, hearing and seeing a fondness he could not hide. “You love her.”

Cory’s expression was wry. “Yeah, but I’m not who she loves the most. I decided a while ago since she’s moved on with her life, I should too. Us being together blows up in our faces, sometimes literally, because we egg each other on, get in trouble, forget to plan anything, and then have to scramble to find ways out of it. Usually that means we call Duncan or one of our other mutual friends for help.” Cory sipped his beer and ate another bite of his burger. “And I’d like to not cross another city off my list of places I’m not allowed to be in for the next twenty years.”

“Only twenty? I’d think with technology, you’d have to wait a century or more.”

Cory grimaced at that thought. “You’re gambling people have good memories or have a desire to look up everything they see. Most people don’t remember stuff that happened twenty years ago unless they’re reminded of it, and don’t have the time to research. Even if you can ask your phone to do it for you.”

Clint fell silent while he contemplated that and finished eating. “You think I could see two centuries or more?”

“Sure,” Cory said confidently. “Or you could lose your head tonight. Up to you.”

“You’re so reassuring,” Clint said sarcastically.

“Told you a couple of times this week: you get to choose how you want to live and why.”

Clint rolled his eyes and picked a topic that was less fraught. “You’ve mentioned the MacLeods a couple of times. Are they brothers?”

“Cousins born fifty years apart. Or as they’ll tell you, same Highland Scottish clan, different vintage. Few of us claim actual family ties; they’re the only ones still alive as far as I know. Connor’s older than Duncan, and he taught Duncan.”

“How dangerous are they?” Clint wondered.

“They’re the best fighters on the side of good we have.”

“Any of them near me?”

“Planning on dumping me as your teacher?” Cory said, insulted.

“No –” Clint protested, then caught the grin Cory sported. “You’re not offended; you’re just giving me shit.”

Cory snickered. “Connor’s in New York City; he runs an antique shop on Hudson Street. Duncan stays on the West Coast; he’s in San Francisco, last I heard.” Cory hesitated before adding, “I’d stay clear of Duncan if I were you. He and I don’t get along anymore. Duncan is a hypocrite, quick to judge others for things he’s done. Last time I saw him, he blew me up in retaliation for me doing it to him years before, although I’d apologized and agreed it wasn’t funny.”

“Got it,” Clint said. “What about Connor?”

“He doesn’t take students often, if at all. Richie says he’s the last student Connor’s taught in two centuries, and only because he’s family. If Connor ever checks you out, it’ll be on his terms, not yours. He’s a cranky, contrary bastard that way.”

“I’ll have fought whatever world-ending monster it is this week and he’ll be in the crowd, making me twitch to feel him and judging me?” Clint drawled.

“More than likely,” Cory agreed. “If he does, don’t mention my name.”

“Why not?”

Cory squirmed slightly. “I might have accidentally acquired cufflinks meant for his cousin. Any other questions you want to ask, considering where we are?”

Clint glanced around the pub, not seeing anyone interested in their conversation, but conceded the point. Given what he already knew, he needed to be more discreet. “Sorry.”

Cory acknowledged the apology with a slight nod and changed the subject. “Tell me,” he said, “is it true the Scarlet Witch can read minds?”

Clint eyed his teacher. Based on things he had said earlier in the week, Cory would chase anyone pretty, regardless of gender, and see if said pretty would return his interest. Clint also suspected the other man had fluid definitions of what made up monogamy but would respect a no if given one. Still, Clint was not about to encourage Cory to pursue Wanda.

“Yes, but she’d know what you’re after, who you are, and what secrets you’re keeping before you opened your mouth.”

“Huh,” Cory contemplated this for a moment. “You think my chances are better with someone in this pub?”

Clint barked a laugh. “Why don’t you wait until I’m gone to find out? I’m not interested in discovering how thin the wall is between your bedroom and the one I’ve been using.”

Cory leaned forward. “Not interested in sharing? Or have you not tried it?”

“I have tried it. It’s okay.”

“Just okay?” Cory frowned. “It’s amazing with the right people. You must not have had fun.”

Clint ignored the comment about not having fun. “I’m not interested knowing you what you look and sound like when you’re having sex. All I want is an anonymous dance partner in a crowded club.”

Cory leaned back, satisfied. “There’s a club three blocks away. It’ll be good.”

“Think I’d rather get rest. You’ve been working me almost nonstop.” His eyes narrowed as a thought occurred to him. “Unless this is some kind of test?”

“Of what?”

“To see if I’m willing to just abandon everything and go with whatever whim you think of?”

Cory beamed, pleased at that deduction, and Clint shook his head. “Just because I’ve been following your directions for most of this past week doesn’t mean I always will. If you want to dance, don’t let me stop you.”

“Another time,” Cory said. “As much as I know you can defend yourself, I don’t think you’re ready to be alone.”

“Appreciate that.” Clint was in a better mental state than when he had arrived, but given Cory’s comments earlier in the day, he still had work to do before he was ready to duel another immortal.

Cory signaled their server and paid their bill, tipping enough not to be memorable, and waved off Clint’s offer to pay. The two men walked back to Cory’s residence.

“You up for trading jokes?” Cory asked.

Clint eyed him warily. He already knew Cory’s verbal jokes were groaners, but some of them were great. “Sure.”

“What did the buffalo say when his son went off to college?”

“Bison?” Clint tried, and chuckled when Cory laughed.

“No fair, you already know that one. Okay, how about: did you hear about the restaurant on the moon?”

“No, I didn’t,” Clint played along.

“It was good, but it had no atmosphere.”

Clint rolled his eyes. “Okay, then. How is your pop culture – as in, do you listen to any music made in this decade?”

“Of course. I hate looking like the idiot who doesn’t know Adele from Mozart.”

“All right, then. Why did Adele cross the road?”

“To get the chicken for dinner?”

“No, to say hello from the other side.”

Cory burst out laughing. “Oh, that’s a good one. Did you hear about that kid who got his rubber-band gun confiscated in math class?”

“No?”

“Yeah, it was a weapon of math destruction.”

Clint groaned, but offered another joke. “What do you call a potato with glasses?”

“Mr. Potato Head?”

“Well, yes, but that’s not the punch line,” Clint said, chuckling. “The punch line is –”

“A spec tater!” Cory finished, and laughed when Clint punched him in the arm.

Cory was bouncing with joy as they tried to outdo each other with bad, pun-filled jokes. Seeing him like that, Clint understood why Cory was reputed to be fun.

A block and a half away from the building, Cory stopped Clint with a hand on his arm. “Someone’s waiting for us at home.” All laughter had vanished from his voice.

Clint had felt no immortal presence beyond his teacher. Suspecting Cory, being older and stronger, could feel another immortal sooner, Clint asked, “What do you want to do?”

“Your choice,” Cory said, as if they were not walking into danger. “Me, I think I know who it could be, and before you ask, it’s not a friend.”

Clint considered his options. Trusting he was safe, he had not brought his sword or any other weapons with him. Cory was wearing only a dagger. Cory’s black leather jacket was a twin to the brown one he had gifted to Clint, which made Clint think it didn’t have much room for any additional weaponry. Running away meant trying to find an escape route in an unfamiliar city, which Clint had done before in other places, but it was not a way he liked to take. Going unarmed was a rookie mistake, and Clint rued that choice now.

“Think you could talk them out challenging?” Clint asked.

Looking as though he had expected that answer, Cory nodded. “Sure. If it comes down to a fight, stay at least a half block back. You don’t want to get a Quickening you didn’t ask for.” He unzipped his jacket and unbuttoned his vest.

“Got it.”

Assured by that, Cory stepped forward, leaving Clint behind. Clint hesitated, abruptly unsure. Wasn’t the point of his training with Cory – a man who had survived eight centuries – to learn how to live as an immortal? If so, then facing a challenge was part of it. Clint was not a man who abandoned his friends. Shaking himself, Clint moved to close the distance between himself and his teacher.

Cory stood just short of the corner across the street from his building. A woman of average height stood on the other side, wearing a long raincoat in a neon pink and knee-high gray boots. Upon coming closer, Clint could see she was Caucasian and had shoulder-length brunette hair. Her face looked as if someone had smashed it and it had healed into a broken mess. Her sword, which she held in her left hand, gleamed in the streetlight. She appeared to be about sixteen, seventeen at the most. In the wintry night air, Clint could see she shivered slightly.

As if reassured Clint was near, Cory crossed the street and stepped closer to the stranger; Clint followed, but stopped at the edge of the sidewalk nearest the street, not wanting to get too close.

“Can I help you?” Cory asked her. His tone was casual, friendly.

“I’m looking for Cory Raines. I was told I could find him here.”

“And you are?”

“Kristine Lawrence,” she replied. “Why? You his keeper?”

“Depends,” Cory answered. “Why do you want to find him?”

“Because he needs to die,” she answered, baring her teeth. “The Game must be played. Evan Solli says the weak shall be weeded out so the strong shall win, and you are not worthy. The unclean shall not inherit the earth.”

“Sorry, but you’ve got the wrong guy,” Cory tried. “I take showers every day. I even use soap and shampoo.”

Kristine hissed at him. “Evan said you’d tell me that. You need to die.”

“Now, darling, don’t be silly,” Cory tried again. “I’m just trying to live a simple life. Why don’t you go find someone else somewhere else on Evan’s list and we’ll call it even? I’ll even give you some cash; you can get a room and get warm. Aren’t you cold?”

“No,” she declared, and attacked.

Cory did not hesitate; he pulled out his dagger and used it to defend himself. Kristine tried to adjust to his unusual choice of weapon. Clint thought she had come in expecting to fight against someone armed with a sword. Cory closed in and made her attempts to use her sword fruitless. A good strike against her upper arm made her drop her sword as she cried out in pain.

Moving, Cory grabbed her so that she could not pick up her sword and put his dagger to her throat. “You don’t have to die,” he offered her one last chance. “Walk away now and I won’t kill you.”

“Fuck you,” she spat, wriggling to get free until she realized just how precarious her position was.

Cory took a deep breath and slit her throat, not stopping until her head toppled to the ground.

Remembering Cory’s earlier warning, Clint stayed back. Despite having seen aliens, magic, monsters, and gods, Clint was not prepared for what he witnessed next.

An ethereal mist rose from the dead woman’s head and body to slam hard into Cory as a shower of lightning strikes and tendrils of white smoke. Cory shuddered as it hit him, his body convulsing, his dagger falling to the ground, and he screamed wordlessly as the lightning lifted him off his feet. Minutes ticked by as he fought for control. Clint watched, horrified and alarmed, since it seemed as though Cory was having problems winning the secondary fight. The way the mist and the lightning curled around Cory reminded Clint of the way Wanda’s magic looked, like wisps of energy and light.

Cory screamed, “No!” Gathering the lightning and mist into his fists, he brought both hands into his chest.

Clint watched as Cory’s actions seemed to turn the lighting and mist into a pointed weapon, as if it was being aimed at the head and body, burning through both, and turning them to ash. As abruptly as it began, the lightning and mist ceased. Cory dropped to the ground, ashes beneath him where a corpse had been.

Concerned, Clint ran to where Cory lay. Through ragged breaths, Cory said, his English accent thick, “I am Corwin a’Green, now Cory Raines. I live for fun, to help the poor, and to spite a king long dead.” He exhaled and closed his eyes.

“Cory?” Clint asked tentatively. Asking if Cory was all right seemed like the wrong question to ask.

Cory opened his eyes and swallowed, as if trying to find moisture in a dry mouth before speaking again. “Taking a head is not fun,” Cory swore, “I _hate_ doing that.” He accepted Clint’s hand up and dusted himself off.

Not trusting he was not going to blurt out something inappropriate, Clint held his tongue until after they were inside Cory’s apartment. Cory had picked up the stranger’s sword; it was the only remaining evidence of the fight.

Cory set the sword on the dining room table, then headed straight for a cabinet in the kitchen, pulled out a bottle of whiskey, uncapped it, and drank straight from the bottle. After more than a few healthy swallows, he shuddered, recapped the bottle, and met Clint’s gaze. “Ask,” he said flatly.

“You okay? That looked like it hurt worse than when a HYDRA rifle shot me in the side. If we didn’t have access to a skin regenerator, I would’ve had a giant scar across my side.”

The older immortal grimaced. “No clue if it compares, since that’s not an experience I have, but yes, it hurts. A lot. Absorbing a Quickening means you absorb everything your opponent was, know what they know, feel what they’ve felt. I now appreciate seatbelts far more than I did yesterday. She died when she went through a windshield.” His accent was still thick, as though taking a Quickening had forced him to revert to his origins.

“How’d you make the body disappear?” Clint asked.

“Aimed the Quickening at it,” Cory told him. “One of the few Quickening tricks I know. You must be very sure of who you are to do it, since you’re aiming the last part of what they were at their body, and most don’t like destroying their corpses. She was 17, but she’d already taken three heads. Evan must be desperate. His last one was much weaker. He beheaded two people so she’d have the Quickenings to strengthen her.”

Considering everything he had seen, heard, and been taught, Clint studied his teacher. Cory looked exhausted, grimly satisfied, and resigned. Gone was the upbeat man who had been trading jokes with him a half hour before.

“You left here because someone wants you dead, and you came back because of me.”

“Yeah, well,” Cory tried for a lighter tone that did not make his eyes, “if someone else taught you, I’d kick myself for it, and that never ends well.” He raised the bottle and took another drink. “Promised Matthew and myself I would be an upstanding citizen for a while. Dying in a hail of gunfire was getting old, since the newer bullets take longer to heal.” He drank again. “So ends the tale of Cory Raines, bank robber.” He offered Clint a crooked smile. “I asked a few people if they’d teach you for me. I got three ‘no’s, so –” He opened his arms, palms up. “You got me.”

Clint hated the way Cory was acting, as though he thought Clint found him lacking. “You think I’m disappointed by what you’ve taught me so far? Hell no. Judging by what I saw, you know something else I could use, and I want to learn. Are there other Quickening tricks?”

“I can’t teach you how to breathe underwater,” Cory volunteered. “Connor thinks everyone can, but as far as I know, only he can. I can teach you to hide your immortal signature, to draw it in so you’re a little tiny bird in a sea of pre-immortals. Mind you, you’ll feel disconnected from your body for three days afterward, but sometimes it’s worth it. That’s all I know. Oh, and as for other tricks not involving a Quickening – I can show you how much explosive and distance you need to blow up an immortal without taking their heads, and I can teach you to hold your liquor, so you get just drunk enough but not so drunk you die.”

“I already know that last one,” Clint offered.

Cory eyed him, then nodded. “You have nightmares from the missions you’ve been on?”

“Yeah,” Clint told him. “Tried drinking them away before someone smarter than me pointed out alcohol wasn’t the answer.”

“Then yeah, you know.” Cory closed his eyes. He took a deep breath. “Tomorrow, after the museum, we’ll start on the other stuff. I’ll warn you now if you have any doubts about your life, you’d better get them cleared out before then, because this magic is fucking exhausting as it is.” He reached for another bottle out of the cabinet before adding, “I won’t be at breakfast tomorrow, but I’ll be back by 10 AM. Stay close; go to the coffee shop but no farther.”

“Is the coffee shop Holy Ground?”

Cory shook his head. “No but considering how many people praise God when they get their coffee, it counts as close enough. It’s also public. Most headhunters won’t make a scene in a place like that since people call 911 then.”

“This woman – you seemed to recognize who sent her. Who is Evan Solli?”

Cory sighed. “Someone who, fifteen years ago, didn’t like the fact I set off a bunch of whoopee cushions on the day of his ‘important’ speech, timed to go off every time he said, ‘this issue.’”

Clint fought the laugh the image produced and did not manage it. “How many times did it go off?”

“Thirty-six times,” Cory said, grinning. “One of my best-timed pranks ever. How was I supposed to know he couldn’t take a joke? Nobody knew who he was; I knew he was immortal and a politician. I’ve _always_ found politicians funny.” His smile faded as he added, “If I’d known then that he was already hunting heads and turning homeless youth into his personal army, I wouldn’t have done it. I’d have told someone else about him and let them take care of it.”

“Why won’t you do that now?”

“Because unless I confront him, he’ll keep sending his minions. Two years ago, he sent a woman who tried to seduce me and take my head. I talked her out of it, but Evan killed her anyway. Pinned me a letter detailing my alleged transgressions against the wall of the parking lot. The letter was attached to her head.”

Clint winced. “Police must have loved you.”

Cory acknowledged that by toasting him with the whiskey bottle and taking another sip. “Yeah. I had to do my best, ‘No, no idea why, officer, that’s not my name.’ Evan sent twins the second time, hoping I wouldn’t be able to fight against two on one. By pure luck, Richie was with me then, helping me fix my computer, and we fought them both. That was a year ago. Two months ago, he sent another minion. I hid out in a church for a while until that guy fell asleep in his car, stuck a dagger in his heart so he wouldn’t revive right away, and got the hell out Rochester.” Cory smiled bitterly. “Evan keeps stacking the deck, and he always watches to see if his minion is successful. Odds are that he’ll get a minion strong enough to fight me and I’ll lose.”

“Thought you didn’t care about that,” Clint said cautiously. “Isn’t that part of the Game?”

“Long as I got something to live for, I’ll continue living,” Cory answered sharply. “Not planning on dying just yet. Moment I do, my head is on the ground. I might as well pick my executioner then, and none of my friends will kill me unless I’m so far gone there’s no saving me.” He took another drink.

“Got it. Do you think Evan’s here?”

Cory shook his head. “I don’t feel him around. He doesn’t stick around if his minion loses. Richie traced him to Spencerport, but when he got to the house, Evan had cleared out. Evan left a note claiming I was cheating.” Cory snorted. “He didn’t think it was fair I got a friend to help.”

“What will you be doing tomorrow morning?” Clint asked, concerned that Cory would challenge Evan without proper preparation.

Cory offered a droll smile. “Sleeping off the hangover. Quickenings always make me want to drink until I pass out or get laid until I’m too exhausted to do more. Especially if I got rid of the body the way I did. There’s a spare set of keys in the drawer next to the sink; lock the door when you leave.” He took the two bottles, patted Clint on the arm, and left the kitchen.

Alone, Clint took a seat in the living room to think about what he had learned. He realized for someone who did not consider himself to be honorable, Cory had a strong personal code. He would fight if it meant protecting something he valued. He was teaching Clint, even though he had tried to find someone else. That Quickening trick of getting rid of the evidence would come in handy, but Clint sensed it was not something one could do all the time without consequence. He also thought the way Cory had described what a Quickening looked like was nowhere a complete description. Clint shuddered, certain he did not want to take one, but sure he would have to eventually. Knowing how to dispose of the body by directing the Quickening would be useful, but given what Cory had mentioned, Clint suspected the talent came with an extra cost in recovery time.

He held no moral objection to what Cory had done to defend himself. Clint had no room to judge, given what he did for a living and what he had done in the past. Cory was a killer; so was Clint. The only difference between them was that Clint had often government license to do so. As far as he was concerned, Kristine had attacked Cory with an intent to kill; Cory had defended himself.

 _Next time we go out, I am not going unarmed. That was stupid,_ Clint thought. _Why the hell did I think I didn’t need weapons? If I’d been back in New York City, I’d have assumed I needed to be armed because that’s how I’ve always operated._

Clint sighed. He knew why: he had assumed that the worst threat he would face would be some drunk asshole. Words, fists, and/or a call to the police usually took care of those.

Needing a distraction from his thoughts, he decided to pay attention to his cell phone. Natasha had texted him a video earlier in the day. It looked as though she had gone to visit Laura, Paul, and the kids. The video was of the kids playing a game. Cooper, the oldest, had declared Nathaniel, the youngest and the only one still in a playpen, as ‘home base’. Cooper and Lila were competing to see who could get to ‘home base’ the fastest through a maze of obstacles that included an assortment of toys and chairs. Clint surmised Natasha had suggested the game. Natasha declared Lila the winner, much to Cooper’s dismay.

Lila and Cooper clustered around Natasha, giving her hugs, and cuddling close. Lila climbed into Natasha’s lap, certain of her welcome, while Cooper just leaned into her left side. Natasha wrapped her arms around both.

“If you could tell your daddy anything, what would you say?”

“I miss him,” Lila said, talking over her brother, who echoed the sentiment. “Why aren’t you getting him home, Auntie Nat? He should be home if you’re home.” Natasha had ended the video then.

Clint swore viciously. Knowing Natasha had sent him that precise video to cause a reaction did not stop him from having one. Before he let himself think about it, he dialed Laura’s number, not caring that it was now almost midnight.

“Clint?” Laura asked, sounding anxious and hopeful. “Are you okay? Are you back? They told me you’d been kidnapped.”

“Yeah, I escaped. I’m on leave, getting help to deal with it all.”

“You’re not coming home then?”

“Laura, we’re divorced,” Clint pointed out harshly. “You made it clear I wasn’t to consider the farm home anymore as long as I was putting my job first.”

Silence met his words. Clearing her throat, Laura said, “I miss you. The kids miss you. You know Cooper tries to be strong but he’s starting to act up and so is Lila and Paul doesn’t like confrontations –”

“Then you must discipline Cooper and Lila yourself,” Clint cut her off. “I can’t, and you said you didn’t want me there.”

“Is it too late to change my mind?” Laura pleaded.

Anger surged through Clint as he considered all the years he had spent trying to balance having a family with being a top-level commando. He thought about the favor he owed Nick Fury to keep them a secret and safe. He recalled coming home to a wife who insisted he put even more of his energy into one of her many projects. Too often, he had only wanted to come home to rest, recuperate from his job, and get some unconditional hugs and love. Sometimes, he had even made excuses about needing to stay on base or at his apartment, just to sleep with no interruptions or demands on his time. Something had to give, and with the divorce completed, the terms of custody clear, he had thought he had known what he’d surrendered. “You going to ask me to retire again?”

“Clint, you said it yourself. You’re only human; you can’t possibly keep up with gods and monsters.”

“Turns out it doesn’t matter. I’m an Avenger according to the Accords and will always be. And as the last several weeks have proved, it doesn’t matter if I am one or not – someone still can drug me, kidnap me, and make my life hell.”

“All the more reason you should come home,” Laura said.

“To what?” Clint couldn’t believe she wanted him there. “We’ve had the same argument for the last six years. I’m sure Cooper’s heard us fighting. I’d rather spare him and the other kids that shit.”

“You’re really going to hold me to the terms of our divorce?” Laura asked incredulously. “Where you see the kids once a month?”

Frustrated, Clint sighed. “Laura, you wrote those terms, so cut the bullshit. What do you want from me? Really want from me.”

“You, home, with us,” Laura said.

“Which means doing what you want me to do, including sharing you with Paul and watching you with him. I don’t get off on that.”

Laura drew in a sharp breath. “I thought you did,” she said in a small voice.

“At first, yes, but then I said nothing because it made you happy.” Clint did not pull his punches. He had bought into the notion of a ‘happy wife, happy life.’ His experience with Marlene, however, had opened his eyes to the lengths he had gone for his wife and what it had cost. “I loved what we had together, Laura. I also love being able to use my skills to do something important. Problem is you want a guy who is content to stay home with you, the kids, and be a farmer. You got that guy already. His name’s Paul.”

Laura said nothing for a long moment. “I’m sorry, Clint. I thought…I thought if I threatened our marriage, you’d tell me why you put your job above everything else and we could work it out.”

Clint put a hand over his face and closed his eyes briefly. He thought he had explained enough times that he couldn’t put into words why putting his skills to good use in defense of the world mattered. He had been a nothing carnie kid, homeless and undereducated, with the ability to hit anything he shot at with a bow and arrow. S.H.I.E.L.D. had taken a fledging mercenary and made him into someone respectable, someone with purpose. Hadn’t Laura been listening?

He took a deep breath before he spoke. “You expect me to talk, Laura. You’ve always expected me to talk, and there have always been things I can’t or won’t say. I was gone for nearly a year, and when I did come home, you expected me to tell you what happened. Why me going to help Steve turned into ten months I can’t talk about.

“I told you then and I’ll tell you again. I can’t; if I do, I could get arrested for breaking national security protocols. Given that, I’d rather keep my mouth shut and stay free. So yeah, I’m going to keep putting my job above everything else.

“And then I saw you and Paul together.” Clint took another breath and closed his eyes briefly, his heart breaking again at the memory. “Way you two held each other, wasn’t much room left over for me. You looked at him like he was your knight in shining armor. You used to look at me like that.”

Defensive, Laura offered, “I still love you, Clint.”

Clint could hear the difference in her tone, though, and knew he was right. “If you loved me the way you used to, you wouldn’t have even mentioned divorce. You didn’t threaten me with divorce, Laura. You served me with one, all written up and done except for my signature on the dotted line. That meant we were done talking, done being husband and wife, and I had the freedom to do whatever the fuck I wanted without you, the kids, or Paul. I’ve had seven weeks to think about what that means.” He let that sink in before he added, “The woman who kidnapped me wanted a dutiful husband, one who did exactly what she wanted, when she wanted, who would never leave her for anything.” He heard Laura’s gasp but continued on, “And I can’t be that guy for you, Laura. I’ll text you to arrange a time to see the kids and say goodbye, but it will be at least another week before I can get free.”

Laura’s voice trembled with unshed tears as she said, “I’ll let them know. Be careful, Clint.”

Clint disconnected the line and dialed Natasha next, choosing to use video so he could gauge her reactions better. She greeted him with, “Seen the video?”

“Yes. Natasha, Laura and I divorced, and the kids are –” He took a deep breath, aware he’d kept this secret from her. “They’re Paul’s kids, not mine.”

Natasha looked puzzled and frowned. “Paul as in Paul Novak, the guy who helps run the farm?” Then her gaze sharpened. “Is that why you told me you didn’t think Laura was cheating on you?” Surprise registered on her features as she put together the clues she had observed over the years. “You had an open marriage?”

Clint nodded. “Laura wanted kids.”

“And you can’t have them. This due to some injury you didn’t tell me about?”

“No, I’ve never been able to have them.”

Natasha leaned back in her seat. She was in her quarters at the Avengers Training Facility, dressed in a pair of blue satin pajamas, and seated in the chair she favored for reading books. “You’ve known for years, so long you stopped thinking it mattered. You want me to stop seeing them?”

“Your choice,” Clint told her. “I know you consider Laura to be a friend, and you’ve enjoyed being an aunt.”

“Because they’re your kids.” She studied him a moment. “You’re going to ease out of their lives,” she surmised. “What happened in Gold Bar?”

“I got a lesson in what obeying a woman’s every desire means,” Clint said. “Didn’t like the similarities I saw, and figured now I was divorced, I didn’t have to go back to that.”

“Clint, I don’t think Laura meant –”

“Doesn’t matter what her intentions were. She doesn’t respect what I do or why I continue to do it. She liked the extra pay I got for putting my line on the line, but....” He let his voice trail off.

Natasha said quietly, “Is it not enough to know she still cares about you?”

“Not if it means putting up with her desire I quit everything I’ve worked for since I was 23 and be the guy she already has in Paul. I had enough time alone in that damned house in Gold Bar to figure out what I wanted was a lover, a partner, a friend, and a wife who only wanted me.”

“Have you talked to Laura and at least let her know you’re safe?”

Clint nodded. “Yeah, a few minutes ago, but that farm isn’t home anymore.” He hardened his voice. “She loves Paul; she won’t admit it’s more than what she feels for me. You know how much I’ve sacrificed to make Laura happy. I’m done trying to pretend that the woman I love is as in love with me as I am with her. If you go see the kids, don’t send me any more videos.”

Natasha smiled sadly. “I wondered if you would come to this point. When you said you’d retire, I thought you’d made your choice, but then you came back for Wanda.” Briskly, she asked, “How are you, Clint?”

“Better,” he replied honestly. “Cory’s helped a lot. Not having to see the same walls all the time helps too.”

“This Cory…is he someone you’re interested in?”

Aware he needed to give her something or she’d come running to rescue him, Clint said, “He wanted to apologize for what happened in his house in Gold Bar, and we got to talking. He offered to teach me how to use a sword, so that’s why I’m sticking around.”

“Is that all?”

Clint smiled. “And he’s an archer.”

Natasha put a hand to her forehead. “Clint, you cannot make friends with every archer you meet. We talked about this.”

“But why not?” Clint asked plaintively.

“Because you invariably outshoot them and then they get pissed off?”

“Won’t happen,” Clint said, and disconnected the videocall. His smile faded as he considered his situation. If he was lucky, Natasha would respect his need for distance a few days longer. He wanted to learn what Cory had left to teach him before Evan came back to finish the vengeance he had started. Clint was certain Evan would be back – if not soon, soon enough. Cory did not sound like he was inclined to run away this time. Clint wanted to protect him if he could. If his teammates showed up, Clint was certain their aid would be overkill, and possibly endanger the friends Cory had mentioned. Clint did not want that, but he also knew he had to do something.

With a sigh, Clint promised himself he would figure it out in the morning.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the feedback so far! Looking forward to your comments on this chapter!


	7. Chapter 7

Cory closed the door to the master bedroom, silently praying Clint would buy his excuses. He set the bottles down on the nightstand. He was too experienced to let a single Quickening bother him. He took the time to wipe and clean his dagger. Stepping through the master bedroom closet, he pulled on a black cap from the stack on one of the shelves, then traded his leather coat for a black parka and a flashlight. He then undid the locks binding the access to the yoga studio, then exited out of the studio’s back door.

Stepping out to the parking lot, he turned right. He walked across the street to a building in the middle of the next block. He needed to confirm what his senses had told him – that Evan had been watching. He found cigarette butts of the brand he knew Evan liked in the building’s alcove. He also wanted to see if he could find a trace of what Kristine had told him via her Quickening, namely, Evan had been prepared to do more than just watch this time.

Footsteps sounded behind him. Cory pivoted, ready for a fight, and shone his flashlight on the incoming person.

“Easy,” the stranger said, raising a hand to protect against the glare. He was a middle-aged black man dressed in a navy winter jacket and dark pants. “Evan was furious you fought again,” the stranger commented, sounding mildly amused.

“You his messenger?” Cory asked.

The man pushed the sleeve of his jacket back, revealing his right wrist and letting Cory get a glimpse of the distinctive trefoil tattoo. “Hell no. Name’s John Santiago and I’m on your side. But I don’t think it’s a violation of my oath to tell you he thought you were much weaker than you are.”

Surprised and disconcerted by that information, Cory eyed the Watcher doubtfully. “Thought I told your kind to stay the hell away from me. Why are you sharing information with me now?”

The Watcher looked displeased but nodded acknowledgement of that. “You did, but then you wouldn’t know you should check your SUV before you start it. I’m not fond of people who’d plant bombs, no matter who they are, Mr. Raines. My cousin lost a limb for that shit in Afghanistan.” John turned and walked away.

Cory bit his lip, squelching the urge to say thank you. He did not want to be in debt to a Watcher, but nonetheless moved to verify John’s story. A quick check of Cory’s SUV’s undercarriage revealed a suspicious-looking block.

“Well, damn,” Cory swore. For a moment, Cory wondered if Clint knew how to defuse a bomb, and if he would be inclined to learn. Then Cory remembered the lie he was telling.

If he asked his student to help him, Clint would be more inclined to investigate who Evan was. Cory already knew, thanks to the two Quickenings he had taken, just how his enemy operated, where he was currently located, and what it would take to defeat him. Evan wanted enough knowledge and power to defeat the Avengers, whom he saw as a roadblock to winning the Prize. If people already knew about super-powered people, gods, aliens, and monsters, the likelihood they would be impressed by immortality was not high. If the Avengers were gone at Evan’s hand, then he could leverage that into…what, exactly, Cory wasn’t sure, but he’d lay even odds that a weasel politician like Evan Solli could make it sound like progress to the public.

Cory had no intention of letting Clint anywhere near Evan. Clint was a strong fighter, but he needed more than a week’s practice before he was good enough to fight an immortal who had been taking multiple heads for several years running. Better to keep up the lie that Cory was in his bedroom, drinking until he passed out.

Resignedly, Cory retrieved the tools he needed to defuse the bomb. It took Cory forty-five minutes to do so and remove the detonator from the ignition. He took the bomb components and dropped them in two of the military surplus ammunition boxes he kept for storing similar items and put them in the small alcove that led to the roof. By the time he was finished, Cory had burned off most of the energy he had gotten from taking a Quickening. Toasting his success in defusing the bomb by drinking some whiskey seemed like an excellent idea. Ignoring the little voice that screamed he was in greater danger than he wanted to admit by drowning it in alcohol also seemed fitting.

Tomorrow would be soon enough to figure out how he could encourage his student to be elsewhere, so he could take care of his problem.

➳ ➳ ➳ ➳ ➳ ➳ ➳➳ ➳ ➳ ➳ ➳ ➳ ➳➳ ➳ ➳ ➳ ➳ ➳ ➳➳ ➳ ➳ ➳ ➳ ➳

The next morning, Clint walked down to the coffee shop to get breakfast, since he could hear Cory snoring and did not want to disturb him. The coffee shop had an extensive selection of options and seemed to do a brisk business. Still, Clint did not linger, not wanting to be recognized and deal with the invariable resulting chaos. He was still weirded out by the notion he had fans as well as people who thought he and the other Avengers were reckless destroyers of property. He bought two large cups of coffee and a breakfast croissant and headed back upstairs.

After finishing breakfast, Clint grabbed his jacket and his cellphone and explored how to get up to the roof. The pantry door had a frosted glass inlay, no lock, and a lever for a door knob. Clint had been inside the pantry before; it was a deep walk-in closet with shelves lining the side walls, and an overhead light. It was wide enough that Clint could stand with his elbows out to the sides and not touch the shelves. He had not inspected the interior of the pantry before, more concerned with getting the item Cory wanted out of the pantry to contribute to meal preparations. Clint stood in the pantry, not seeing the roof access immediately. Finally, he saw the outline of it.

The door to the roof was hidden behind a steel shelf full of toilet paper and paper towels. Removing a 36-count roll of toilet paper from the middle shelf revealed the key pad for the roof door. Clint used the code Cory had given him to unlock it. The door opened into a small passageway, revealing that the steel shelf, contents and all, were bolted to the front of it. The door opened to the right, and once opened, laid flat against the passageway wall.

Once through, Clint discovered a case of cherry bombs, M-80s, and highly illegal quarter sticks in a crate next to another crate of assorted, less powerful fireworks. Both cases were stacked in the upper right corner of the passageway. Clint also noted that beside the fireworks were two military ammunition boxes that looked as though Cory had not taken the time to set them down properly, as if he’d been in a rush.

“Well, Cory did say he likes explosions,” Clint muttered as he continued to look around the space. “Makes sense he’d store this stuff out of sight.”

To Clint’s left and forming the upper corner of the passage was a short flight of stairs and a heavy door with both a double deadbolt and a lock in the knob. The wall to his left held a wooden bow and a full quiver of arrows. Clint spent several minutes examining the bow, which was a single stave, English longbow, with a leather wrapped handle, and the distinct look of something well-used and handled with love. His careful inspection revealed no manufacturer’s mark, leaving him to wonder if Cory had commissioned it. Gut instinct told him the answer was yes. Telling himself he was going to ask if Cory would let him shoot it, Clint put the bow back on its hook before moving to the stairs to the roof. Clint stepped out on to the roof, moving past the middle to see the view of the entire block.

The winter morning was cold and crisp and served to distill the last of the dregs of sleep. Breathing it in, Clint let himself absorb the moment. He was alive, not dead, and he now knew what to expect if he ever fought another immortal. He was still an Avenger. The dream he had had of a quiet little farm in the country with a woman and kids who loved him was gone. Had been gone for a while, if he was honest with himself. He had not been willing to let it go until after he’d come home from Wakanda and seen how Laura, Paul, and the kids interacted with each other. Talking with both Natasha and Laura last night had reinforced his conviction that while his heart ached with the loss of that dream, it still felt like he had chosen the right path.

Before he could get too contemplative, his phone buzzed with an incoming text. _Natasha thinks you have a new boyfriend_ , Wanda warned.

Clint laughed. _No, I don’t_ , he wrote back.

_You going to tell me why you’re learning to fight with a sword?_

_Because it’s cool,_ Clint wrote back, grateful Wanda was too far away to read his thoughts.

Wanda did not reply for a moment. _You are not cool. You are old._

Clint shook his head and decided not to bother replying. Slipping his phone into his jacket pocket, he took a walk around the flat roof. He found the unmistakable indications that a wall bracketing a rooftop HVAC unit had done double duty as a backstop for an archery target, and grinned. Silently, he promised after this was over, he would arrange for Cory to come up to the Avengers Facility and they could have a proper archery competition.

A motorcycle roared into the parking lot. The distinctive sound of a Harley made Clint suspicious, and he moved to see if it was Steve. When he obeyed the state helmet law, which was on long extended drives, Steve wore a full-face helmet with an Old Glory design on it and a heavyweight brown leather jacket. As the rider turned off the motorcycle and dismounted, he pulled off the helmet he wore. It was not Steve, and Clint felt relieved. As much as he liked Steve, he had no desire to explain his situation to him yet. Clint spent a moment more walking the perimeter, noting the alcove in the building across the street where someone, either Evan or Cory’s Watcher, watched the fight. Cigarette butts littered the ground in the alcove, making Clint wonder how long that person had been waiting.

Thinking of Evan made Clint remember he wanted to do something more than just sit around, waiting for him to strike. To figure out who he was, Clint would need to connect to the Avengers’ database. All he had to do was unlock a hidden app on his phone and Julia, the Avengers Training Facility AI, would be available for him to do an extensive background check. Clint hesitated as he tried to figure out his justification for the search, without revealing immortality or the Game. Any search on other people would be flagged by the system, and protocol demanded that he have a superb reason for running it to prevent abuse.

Just to be sure, he logged into the app. “Julia, if I wanted to know who someone was, what are the rules?”

“Good morning, Agent Barton. All identify searches must fall within the parameters for probable cause,” Julia told him. “You are advised to notify police if it falls within ordinary jurisdictional limits before proceeding. As you are within New York state, both state and federal laws apply. As an Avenger, you are highly advised to follow all laws unless the person, alien, or monster of interest is in imminent danger of causing mass destruction. All found information is shared among all Avengers.” Julia paused before asking brightly, in a tone that showed she was still a Stark AI, “Now that I’ve given you the official warning, shall I run a name now?”

“Thanks, but no,” Clint told the AI, and heard her make a sound of disappointment. “Just wanted to be sure I wasn’t misremembering things.”

He considered his options. Clint was tempted to make the request, and realized if he did so now, he’d be inclined to tell Cory what he knew. Clint mentally reviewed what Cory had told him about Evan. Another immortal, Richie, had found out where Evan lived. Cory knew Evan was still likely to be in the Rochester area, planning another attack. Cory had taken two Quickenings belonging to Evan’s minions who had met Evan somewhere before being sent to kill Cory. Therefore, Cory had at least an idea of where Evan was based. For all Clint knew, Cory could have decided that running was the better part of valor – and would not want Clint to get involved any further than he already had.

Clint grimaced at that thought. Cory had become a friend. Clint did not like leaving his friends unprotected. If he performed the research, though, he could cause trouble neither he nor Cory wanted.

“Did you need me for anything else, Agent Barton?” Julia asked, startling him.

Reluctantly, Clint decided to wait. “No, thanks, Julia,” he said, and disconnected the app.

Abruptly, Clint felt his ‘immortal nearby’ alarm blaring, a clear indicator that Cory was awake. Clint had figured out that his ‘immortal nearby’ alarm would sound if he got up before Cory, as if the low-level awareness he had become accustomed to having needed a boost. Glancing at his watch, he saw it was 9:45 AM, so Clint headed back downstairs, locking the doors behind him.

Just as he stepped out of the pantry, Cory requested, “Please grab four recyclable bags from the stack on the lower right-hand side before you exit.”

Clint stepped out of the pantry and handed the bags to Cory before shutting the pantry door. “What’s this for?”

“Grocery shopping after the museum,” Cory said blandly. “What, you thought I’d steal something?”

“You, by your own admission, are a thief, who is going to a museum to see if something that once belonged to another thief is there.”

“Yes, but I didn’t promise her I’d do anything about it. Not even send her a photo for her Instagram.”

Clint chuckled. “Splitting hairs, my friend, splitting hairs.”

“It’s kept me alive,” Cory said cheerfully. “Before we go, let me show you how to conceal a dagger in that jacket I gave you. The museum doesn’t have a metal detector, so we won’t have any problems carrying it.”

Cory’s cheer kept them going through the museum, which turned out not to have the jewelry Amanda claimed was hers. If Clint closed his eyes, he could believe this was a day with a new friend. He could tell, though, that Cory kept a close watch on everyone. Not liking the way Cory held himself, as if expecting an attack from any direction, Clint contemplated ways he could help.

Once back at the apartment, Clint helped put away the groceries they had purchased. As he did so, he asked, “Would it help if I used my resources to track Evan?”

Startled, Cory looked at him. “You’d do that?”

“Well, what are you standing in the way of? If it was just over a prank you pulled, he would’ve found you sooner. It’s not like you weren’t right there when it happened. So why is he coming after you specifically, more than a decade later?”

Cory stared at him. “You know, I didn’t think about that,” he said, closing the refrigerator door. “It’s not unheard of for us to hold grudges for decades or even centuries. I don’t always remember who I pissed off for what or why, either. I tend to figure what I did was funny in the moment and maybe not so funny after the fact. Sandwiches for lunch okay?”

“Sure, unless you were planning to kick my ass afterwards,” Clint said readily.

Cory pursed his lips and considered. “Probably a good idea to skip lunch. The first time Matthew taught me how to pull my Quickening in, I threw up.” He put away the deli meat he had pulled from the last bag.

Clint restacked the now empty recyclable bags in the pantry. “Yes, but did you do it accidently?” He pulled the pantry door shut.

“Matthew will tell you I did it deliberately,” Cory said. “Do you want me to teach you here or do you want to head down to the yoga studio?”

“Does it matter?” Clint asked.

Cory pursed his lips. “Only if you’d rather clean downstairs than up here.”

“Downstairs,” Clint agreed. He looked at Cory, who wore a long-sleeve green t-shirt and jeans. “I take it no change of clothes necessary?”

Cory shook his head. “Unless you care about what you’re wearing.”

Clint glanced down at his attire. He had tossed on a clean gray t-shirt and jeans. “Only if you mind me doing laundry when we’re done.”

Cory grinned. “No.” Once in the former yoga studio, Cory sat down in the middle of the floor and gestured for Clint to do the same.

“Now, my friend,” Cory began, “an immortal’s Quickening is nothing more than their life force. Imagine yours as being something you can hold between your hands, like a ball.” He brought his hands up as if cradling a ball. “If you could, you could stop someone’s heart with it, but we’re just going to focus on breathing until you can see that image of holding your Quickening in your hands. Take that ball and push in until that ball is as small as you can make it, until your hands touch.”

Clint tried, but he could not find whatever it was Cory was talking about. “I don’t think I’m getting it,” he said twenty minutes later.

Cory looked at him. “How do you know you can hit a target that has yet to come into view?”

“Calculated trajectory based on likely pattern and relative height,” Clint said automatically.

“And how do you know where you exist in relation to your target?”

Puzzled, Clint frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Everyone moves based on understanding ‘my feet are here, my head is here,’ right?”

“Right. Because gravity.”

“If you were to roll yourself into the tiniest burrito, where would you go?”

“Not very far.”

Cory accepted that with a nod. “But you could pull a blanket over yourself and hide, if it was camouflaged and you got it over yourself in time. All we’re doing is putting what you are in that camouflage. Pretend you’re not immortal, not yet; you don’t even know who are, so you don’t know you’re broadcasting this faint, flickering signal. Picture that signal like a fire you’re trying to bank but not put out, just enough to burn. Breathe deep and pull it in.” He rose to his feet and moved to the wall, where a cabinet of assorted weaponry and workout supplies stood. “That’s it,” he said encouragingly.

“How do you know if you’re doing it right?” Clint asked, breathing deep.

“Just focus; you’ll notice it in your hands and feet first, then it’ll feel like everything you are is in your chest. Close your eyes.”

Clint could hear his teacher rummaging through the supply cabinet and shut his ears to the sounds Cory was making. Suspecting Cory was making noise deliberately, Clint forced himself to focus. It took Clint an hour to make the transition from broadcasting immortal to someone much weaker. He wondered if he would ever get any faster and if it would ever be worth the effort. The more he made himself small, the more the older immortal’s presence became like a battering ram, ringing with every blow.

“You feel loud as hell,” Clint bitched, breathing shallowly, “and this feels like I got a 200-pound ball of energy sitting on my stomach.”

“Congratulations, you’ve done it. Now. Carefully. Let that weight go. Not too fast, or you will throw up.”

Clint fought the urge to shove off the energy, understanding Cory’s warning, but it was difficult. He managed to get his body to somewhat normal, but it seemed to take twice as long as the first part of the exercise. Too relieved to feel like he was fully back in his body, he rushed the last few minutes, and paid for it in dry heaves. He did not, however, throw up. “Ow,” he said, wincing once he stopped heaving. “Not a trick I want to do often. Ow. I feel like I did weights.”

“Practice it every so often; it gets a little easier in time like anything else. Want to spar or do you want to do something else?”

“Something else,” Clint asked. He still felt slightly off-kilter, like not all his body belonged to him. “My head aches and it feels like my balance is off.”

Cory chucked, amused. “Yeah, that sounds about right.”

Breathing carefully, Clint focused on the wall ahead of him rather than look at his teacher. “That bow you have in the room off the pantry by the roof door – is that what you used for target practice?”

“Sometimes,” Cory admitted. “You want to go shoot something?”

“Well, if you won’t let me figure out who Evan Solli is or why he wants you, then yeah, I want to shoot something.”

Cory deliberated while Clint focused on breathing and finding his balance again. “If I told you to go home, don’t worry about me, you wouldn’t do it, would you?”

Clint snorted. “No. Because you’re a friend, and I don’t abandon my friends.” _There_ , he thought, _now I think I’m back in my body._

“So, what you’re saying is I’m too late in warning you I’m a self-centered scamp, always have been, always will be?”

“Probably –” Too late, Clint realized the danger, and turned in time to see Cory aim an arrow at him that hit him in the heart.

“Sorry, boyo,” Cory said, as he fought the impending death, “but I can’t risk you for what Evan’s planning.” Before Clint could react, Cory closed the distance and slid a knife through his heart.

Unable to fight anymore, Clint died.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the kudos and comments so far! Looking forward to your reactions! :-)  
> Next update may not be as frequent as this week; I am wrestling this to an end.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the feedback so far!  
> Previous parts have been edited for grammar and consistency. Thanks to N. for helping me plot.

Clint revived with a sudden gasp. With more difficulty than he expected, he sat up stiffly and glanced down at his chest. Grimacing, he pulled out the arrow and dagger still in his heart. His mouth tasted dry, as if he had been dead a while, and he craved water. Promising himself he would get something to drink as soon as he felt like he had blood flowing to all his limbs, he allowed himself the luxury of getting his bearings.

Looking around, he saw he was in the former yoga studio, but the lack of another immortal’s presence told him he was alone. Closing his eyes briefly, he checked to make sure he did not feel as disconnected to his body as he had before Cory shot and stabbed him. Cory had taught him that Quickening trick deliberately, aware it would slow his reaction time and cover Cory getting a bow out of the cabinet. Stiffly, Clint got to his feet, dumping the blood-crusted weapons to the side of the storage cabinet. Through the frosted glass of the studio’s windows, Clint saw it was now dark outside. Certain Cory had abandoned him to go after Evan, Clint did not see the point in staying and waiting for Cory to return.

Anger surged through Clint as he thought about how he had taken Cory at his word. Yet Clint could not stay angry at the older immortal for long. Cory _had_ warned him early on by asking if he wanted to learn from someone more honorable and by saying he was a prankster and a thief. Clint had been expecting something for days: an explosive tripwire, a bunch of cherry bombs, a water balloon when he least expected it. Shot and stabbed was not how he had predicted Cory would trick him.

A check of Clint’s phone revealed it was now ten p.m., meaning he had been dead for six and a half hours. Drinking water, changing clothes, and packing his duffel did not take long. An arrow embedded in the back of the door to the vestibule between the door to the condo and the door to the street stopped Clint in his tracks.

Attached to the arrow was the key ring Clint had borrowed the day before to go to the coffee shop. Also attached to it was a note, which Clint debated ignoring for a full minute before he pulled the arrow out and retrieved the note. In a hurried, looping, almost calligraphic script full of tall h’s and t’s, Cory had written:

_Clint,_

_Evan Solli thinks the Avengers are a threat to his winning the Prize and wants you all dead. I had to borrow your car. Mine won’t run – Evan stuck a bomb on it. I’ll call you when Evan’s dead. Please lock the doors when you leave._

_Stay alive and keep your head._

_Cory_

Clint swore, grabbed the keys, and went out to the parking lot. Cory’s SUV was still there, but Clint’s Charger was not. The SUV looked like it was still operational, but that did not rule out a remotely operated bomb. Clint had learned counterterrorism techniques while with S.H.I.E.L.D., including identification of a rigged vehicle. The telltale electrical tape hanging down from under the carriage and the mess of wires underneath were definite clues but did not show what Cory might have done with the bomb itself. Then Clint remembered the ammo boxes in the little area behind the pantry. Following his hunch, Clint checked out the boxes and found the disassembled bomb components. While it was not out of character for Cory to have explosives, Clint was convinced his teacher’s style was more in line with the crates of firecrackers than the military-grade bomb he found. As he exited the area, the lack of the longbow caught Clint’s eye, and he suspected Cory had taken it with him.

Exhaling, Clint considered his next move. His skills did not include automotive repair, but he had a working knowledge of explosives, since he used exploding arrows. Given that, Clint suspected the bomb on Cory’s SUV had been wired to explode either when he triggered the unlock button on the vehicle or when he put the key in the ignition. If it had been the latter, then Cory had disabled the vehicle’s ability to start when he removed the bomb. That meant Clint had no access to a vehicle unless he wanted to steal one and hotwire it.

If he stayed, he would rattle around the apartment, alone, waiting and hoping for some word of Cory’s fate. If he left, finding Cory or even what happened to him would become impossible. Presuming he found his teacher, what did Clint hope to do? Cory had at least six hours’ lead time. He could have fought Evan by now and spent the next several hours getting laid. Clint hoped that was the case.

Clint stared at the arrow and swore. Given what he understood about combat and odds of plans succeeding the first time, Clint did not trust Cory would be that successful. Cory was more likely to run than fight, even given the fight he had engaged in yesterday. If Clint hoped to help his teacher, he needed to leave. Grabbing his phone, he dialed a number, opting not to use video.

“Natasha, are you still tracking my car?”

“Did someone steal it?” Natasha asked, amused.

“Yes, and Cory’s using it to go after someone who wants us dead.”

“What?” Natasha sounded startled. “Who?” Clint could hear her typing in a keyboard.

“His name is Evan Solli.”

“As in the former New York State Representative Evan Solli?”

“Could be,” Clint said. “Cory said he was a politician who’s pissed at him for a prank he pulled fifteen years ago. Cory set up a bunch of whoopee cushions to go off every time he said a certain word.”

“That was Cory?” Natasha seemed impressed. “I heard about that. Nobody there could figure out how he did it.” Her tone showed she thought the reason was obvious. She paused before stating, “Clint, according to the tracker, your car is in a public park about two hours from where you are, assuming you’re still at Cory’s place.” He could hear her typing on a keyboard. “Soonest I could come get you is still at least three hours by car.”

“Think Stark would use his helicopter for this?” Clint asked. “Whatever Evan’s doing is important enough that Cory didn’t want me following. Said he couldn’t risk me for what Evan’s planning.”

“Which means?”

“Something not good,” Clint replied. “Cory’s not a hero.”

“Got it. Hold.”

Fifteen minutes ticked by. Clint suspected the delay meant she was having difficulty getting Tony to focus on what she needed from him.

Ten minutes later, she returned. “Sorry. Wanda, Steve, and I can be there in an hour and half, but I’ll need to land the helicopter in a park about six blocks away.”

“What about Tony or anyone else?”

“Tony will join us when we’ve figured out if it’s a big enough threat to warrant his help. If we need anyone else, we’ll make the call then.”

“Sounds like a plan. I’ll–” The sense of another immortal approaching rolled through Clint and he said, “I’ll call you back.” Disconnecting the line, Clint tucked his phone in his jeans pocket, grabbed his sword, and made his way back up into the living room.

Cory staggered up the stairs from the former yoga studio, looking as though he had been in a fight. Rips and tears decorated his jacket, and blood stained his jeans. He carried a duffel bag in one hand and seemed intent on just getting into the nearest chair. As soon as he made it, he looked at Clint, disconcerted to see him still in his house.

For a long, wordless moment, in which Clint did not believe one iota Cory was that surprised, Cory said nothing.

“Oh, hi, you’re still here, huh,” Cory tried for casual, but at Clint’s glare, he winced. “Not buying that one?”

“Did you think I’d leave and pretend like you weren’t going after someone who’d repeatedly attacked you?”

“Maybe? I was hoping you would because you’d have other bigger things to….” Cory faltered. “Okay, so you won’t buy that one either.”

“How about why the hell you look like you lost?”

Cory winced. “I didn’t lose; I didn’t know he had that shit.”

“What shit?”

“Purple laser shit,” Cory said. “And I won, sort of.”

Clint crossed his arms and glared at his teacher. Cory dodging answering him upset Clint more than Cory deciding to retreat. “Okay, so you ran rather than confront him. You warned me you tend to, so why are not telling me the rest of it? Like why my car is in some public park two hours away?”

“Oh, that’s not where your car is,” Cory said. He gestured towards the parking lot behind the building. “I brought your car back in one piece, no damage, I swear. I stuck the tracking device on Evan’s car because I didn’t think you’d still be here and I didn’t want him taking off without someone being able to follow him.”

“And you got hurt how?”

“His guards chased me. One of them had this funky gun that shot purple lasers – scared the hell of me. I had to climb a tree and, well, I kind of sort of fell when they left.”

“Cory, there is no ‘kind of sort of’ for falling.”

Looking sheepish, Cory admitted, “I miscalculated how far I’d climbed up and missed a step going down. Broke my legs. They’re not healing as fast as I’d like, which tells me I ripped muscles and tendons too.” He brightened. “But hey, his guards were oblivious, and I could get away, so… maybe you know what those purple laser guns were?” Cory smiled hopefully.

Clint sighed. “Describe them.”

“Looked like this pointy steel tube with a big pull lever you pulled towards yourself,” Cory said. “One of his guards was handling it and it scared her so she shot herself with it and…” Cory winced. “Purple laser comes shooting out and she vanished, along with part of a tree. Spooked the other guard; he screamed and ran off.”

Heart sinking at the possibilities those words conjured, Clint swallowed hard and picked up his phone. He enabled the app that connected him to the AI in the Avengers Training Facility.

“Good evening, Agent Barton,” Julie said. “How may I assist you?”

“Show me the images from the Wrecking Crew warehouse.”

“One moment,” Julie said, then brought the images to his screen. Flipping through them, Clint showed the one he thought it could be to Cory. “Look like this?”

“Yeah, that’s it,” Cory said, and Clint thanked Julie before disconnecting the app.

“I, uh, guess this is big stuff?” Cory ventured anxiously.

“Yeah, it means Evan has his hands on illegal weapons he likely bought from a guy who called himself the Vulture. They’re sourced from alien technology. What else did you find?”

“No chance of you calling it good and we go back to teaching you how to defend yourself from non-alien-technology-buying immortals?” Cory tried hopefully.

“Not when said immortal is doing shit that warrants his arrest and the seizure of those weapons.” Clint held up a hand, expecting what Cory would say next. “And before you suggest we call the FBI, this is the stuff the FBI calls us Avengers to handle.”

Cory looked down at his feet before taking a breath and letting it out. The expression he wore when he looked at Clint was as serious as Clint had ever seen him. “How lethal are those lasers?”

“I mentioned getting hit with a HYDRA rifle, didn’t I? They were created using similar alien tech. I would’ve died sooner if I hadn’t gotten the best in medical care. Sucker hurt like nothing else I’ve ever felt before then. Shot was a small caliber style, deflected off my bow, so it wasn’t a full shot. Had it hit me higher or been bigger, I might not be here.”

Cory closed his eyes briefly. “So that guard is dead.”

“Yeah.” Clint studied the other man. “You were trying to convince her to leave.”

“Well, at least I know the other one was listening,” Clint said, a subdued smile on his lips. “But that brings me to the other thing: who the hell builds a damn castle in the middle of nowhere?”

“Castle?”

“I know a damned castle when I see one,” Cory retorted, glaring at Clint, who rolled his eyes.

“Got the memo you were born in an age of castles and knights,” Clint countered.

Cory relented. “Okay, so maybe not one like the Charles LaDow House in Albany or the ones I grew up with, but still. It has two turret rooms and enough bedrooms to house a bucket load of people and staff.”

“Was Evan there when you showed up?”

Cory grimaced. “That’s why the guards chased me. Evan ordered them to. I can’t get to him as long as he has other people guarding him.”

“Because you won’t kill the other people standing in the way. Cory, for a guy who claims to be not honorable, you have a very interesting definition of it.”

“Blame Matthew; he was a knight,” Cory said.

“Uh huh,” Clint said. “Because it’s all his fault you’ve chosen to live with yourself and not be ashamed of the things you’ve done.”

“Exactly!” Cory beamed. “Now, what do you say we get on the Internet and buy us two tickets to Paris? I’ll introduce you to my friends – they run an upscale club, great music, amazing choice of liquors and …” Cory faltered. “No?”

“Later, when we’ve dealt with Evan,” Clint promised. He kept his arms crossed, his stance firm.

Cory considered him, and his eyes narrowed. “How long before your friends get here?”

“About an hour or less. Probably less, given I told Natasha I’d call her back and haven’t yet.” Something about Cory’s body language made Clint step closer. “Cory, if you’re thinking of running to Paris or somewhere else, that’s your choice and don’t let me stop you. But I could use what you know about fighting Evan.”

Cory looked away for a moment. “This is the part where I usually call a friend and let them deal with the fight.”

“Nothing says you can’t do that.”

“Not in next hour,” Cory refuted, smiling wryly. “Especially since I lost those cufflinks I stole from Connor in a poker game, and he’d be who I’d call first since he’s closest.” He got up stiffly from the chair. “I’ll shower and change. You should make coffee; no one will sleep tonight.”

Clint eyed him warily. “Not going to use the back door in your bedroom to leave me here alone again, are you?”

Scowling, Cory said irritably, “Evan would take your head in a heartbeat if he knew what you meant to me, or force one of his damn minions to do it. If you take his head, word will get out you play the Game. You’re too public to risk every headhunter between here and Hong Kong coming after you, and they will once the immortal grapevine starts talking. Better for both of us if we figure out a better way to deal with Evan so that grapevine is only a rumor, not fact, and that means waiting for your friends.”

“Thanks, Cory.” Clint had not considered what playing the Game might mean for him, and the ramifications spun out in his head as soon as Cory mentioned the possibility.

The older immortal acknowledged that with a nod before moving out of the living room.


	9. Chapter 9

“What happened?” Natasha inquired when Clint called her back. He could hear a helicopter in the background and surmised either she or one of the black ops commandos assigned to the Avengers was piloting it.

“Cory returned,” Clint told her. “He said Evan got some of Vulture’s weapons and used them to convince him to leave.”

Natasha swore. “We didn’t bring enough weapons or gear to deal with that.”

“If it helps any, Cory doesn’t think Evan will do anything in the next several hours. It’s an extended grudge match between them, and Cory retreated rather than deal with the unexpected firepower. They’ve been having skirmishes for a few years now.”

“Got it. We’ll be there in twenty.” Natasha disconnected the call.

Now seated at the dining room table with the biggest mug of coffee he could find, Clint looked at his teacher, who was entertaining himself by playing poker against four imaginary friends. Clint studied him a moment before figuring out Cory was playing with a marked deck and trying to guess which of the ‘friends’ had the magic hand. Out of curiosity, Clint checked each hand.

“Cory, these are royal flushes,” Clint noted, amused. “What’s the point?”

“Ah, but this is where the game begins,” Cory said. He spread his hands out with a flourish over the cards. “You, my friend, say this is a rigged game. Your buddy next to you wonders who rigged it, and so on and so on until we either have a bar fight or a standoff. Meanwhile, the guy who slipped the rigged deck into play has made off with everyone’s money while they were busy arguing. Usually, that’s me.” He looked at the younger man. “Way I see this, we only get one chance to make sure Evan isn’t that guy, and I’m all out of aces to counter his hand.” He laid down his cards, revealing he held a hand full of nothing. “All I got is a bluff – that I have something he wants.”

Clint’s eyes widened, and anger surged reflexively through him. “You want use us as bait.” He reminded himself Cory could have done that without telling him in advance, which would have pissed him off and damaged his opinion of Cory. As it was, Clint was certain given an opportunity, the older immortal would secure his interests first and not consider the consequences.

“Got any better ideas?”

“Yeah,” Clint snapped. “Stop contemplating how you can save just your ass, because a guy like Evan seems like someone who’d make you regret you offered anything. Look at what he did when you showed up. You tried to have a fair fight and he protected himself with not only his minions, but armed ones at that.”

“I was expecting armed but not like that,” Cory groused.

“For all you know, he could have come here while I was dead and taken advantage. He knows where you live, after all.”

Cory winced at that possibility. “I hadn’t thought about that.”

Not surprised by that comment, Clint urged, “So, let’s wait until Steve, Wanda, and Natasha get here, then make plans for how we stop Evan.” Clint sipped his coffee before suggesting, “In the meantime, why don’t we discuss what we’re willing to tell them about immortality?”

“They’re your friends,” Cory noted. “You trust them with your life. Might as well tell them the whole deal.” He gathered up the cards and stacked it to one side. He produced a new deck with a seascape background and dealt a card face up. Clint’s eyes widened as he realized Cory had used a magician’s trick to switch decks. “If we don’t come clean now, they _will_ notice at some point you’re healing from wounds that used to injure or kill you.” He laid out the next set of cards in a solitaire pattern. “I don’t want an angry Captain America demanding answers from me. I don’t do well under interrogation; never have, likely never will.

“And unless you plan for some weird shit where Evan loses his head and neither of us does it, then we have to figure out how we’re going to make his death happen. Amanda told me she got a Quickening once because her partner dropped a sheet of glass on an immortal’s head.”

“You have explosives,” Clint pointed out.

“And then my reputation for never killing an immortal with explosives goes away along with my desire to play with them,” Cory retorted. He dealt another card, then looked at his student. His face reflected a fierce determination. “And that’s not something I’m willing to risk.”

“How would anyone know?” Clint frowned. “Besides the Watchers that is.”

Cory hunched his shoulders. “I say shit when it might help me or when I’m drunk or when it’s Matthew, Amanda, or Richie grilling me about why I did something,” he admitted.

“Matthew and Amanda, I get, because one is your teacher and the other has been your lover, but why Richie?” Clint wondered. He already understood Cory was loyal to those he called friend.

Cory did not reply for several minutes, as if he was trying to find the words to distill a painful memory. When he spoke, his face looked haunted. “He’s like a brother. I owe him for not only what he did to help me last year, with Evan and my busted computer, but for what he did for me nineteen years ago.” He fell silent.

“What happened?” Clint prompted when the silence continued for longer than a minute.

Cory shook himself, as if the memory was too much. “I, uh,” he let out a breath, “was tired of it all. Had tried to start over but didn’t have the right skills – everything was getting computerized – and I got depressed. Wanted to…” He looked at Clint, mouth tightening, as his face reflected a myriad of emotions, none of them happy. “Die. Didn’t see the point on going on; I’d had a good run with seven centuries and change and it had been fun, but….”

Alarmed and not liking the despair he was reading on the other immortal’s face, Clint queried, “What did you do?”

“I picked a fight with Richie, certain he’d want revenge for me blowing him up a few years earlier just like his teacher had. He fought me and demanded I promise to visit a mental health professional when I surrendered. Even made sure I went to the appointments. He dropped everything for me. Didn’t tell me it cost him a girlfriend he loved – I had to find that out later from someone else.”

“That matter?”

“Richie always has a lover, mainly women,” Cory explained. “He loves sex and romance, loves picking up people for a night or three weeks. He makes sure they know he’s not interested in marriage or forever, so they know what they’re getting into. Sometimes he falls in love and starts dreaming of coming clean about why he’s a paranoid son of a bitch.” Cory smirked. “Usually calls me in a panic when that happens.”

“So why did he help you?” Clint wondered.

“Richie did it because I’d been the guy who found him in a bar a few years earlier trying to forget the massive betrayal he’d suffered and wouldn’t let him be alone and defenseless while he drank.”

“You owe him,” Clint said, understanding.

“Wish he was here,” Cory admitted. “He wanted to kill Evan for me a year ago, and he would win. He’s ruthless when he fights. You’ll like Richie. He doesn’t trust easily but once he does, he’ll do anything for you.”

Clint thought he sounded like an interesting guy. “Who betrayed him?”

“The great Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod,” Cory said derisively, “was possessed by a demon. Richie tried to help him and nearly lost his head for it. He still has the scars. He said a good friend helped them both, but he’ll never trust his first teacher again.” Cory shook his head sadly. “I’ve always held the bond between a student and teacher is sacred. Demons, from what I’ve seen, tend to be ones of our own making, or someone’s hypnosis to make you think they’re real. Mac still thinks it was a demon and keeps using it as an excuse for what he did.”

“It’s not an excuse. It’s a reason you lost control but not an excuse,” Clint said flatly. “I’ve heard that from enough shrinks to know. You can’t apologize for that shit. All you can do is live with the fallout.”

Cory regarded Clint, his curiosity piqued. “What happened to you?”

“Let’s just say Wanda was not the first person I met with mind control powers. I can’t talk about the rest due to national security. Does Richie forgive Mac for being unable to control himself?”

“Enough that he’ll be in the same room with him but never alone, and never without another immortal around. Richie says he’s better off if they don’t stay in the same city at the same time; he’s convinced the Universe will conspire to make something bad happen if they are.”

Clint whistled softly. “Richie must have some damning evidence to think that way. He one of your friends in Paris?”

Cory nodded. “He’s the bar manager of a club Amanda and her partner, Nick Wolfe, own.” Cory paused. “It’s on Holy Ground.”

“Really? How is that possible?”

“Two centuries ago, the building was part of a church. Church fell into decline; the building was still sound, so it was turned into offices and other real estate.” Cory grinned. “But the club still counts as Holy Ground since people went into the catacombs beneath it and lit candles to bless the dead.”

“Good to know there’s at least somewhere I could have a drink without worrying about a fight breaking out,” Clint noted.

His phone buzzed with a text from Wanda that was an emoji of a shield, red flame, a black widow spider, and a helicopter along with the word, “Landed.” Ignoring that for the moment, Clint focused on the older immortal, whose mood seemed more buoyant now that he was discussing his friends. “How’d Amanda and Nick find out about it?”

Cory laughed. “Amanda claims she forgot, Nick only says it was legal, so I’m sure they have a delightful story behind it. I’m hoping I can get Richie to tell me.” He rubbed his hands together in anticipation.

“Why do I sense you trade information on other immortals?”

Cory assumed an innocent expression. “Me?”

“Uh huh,” Clint said. “Because that would mean you could pull pranks on everyone without too many repercussions?”

Pressing a hand to his chest, Cory proclaimed, “You wound me, sir.” Then he laughed. “But yes, sometimes I do, because it’s fun and useful.” 

Before Clint could respond to that, the sound of bleating sheep resounded through the apartment. “What the hell is that?”

“Doorbell,” Cory said, his smile widening. “The standard one makes me think of church bells and priests who tried to pray repentance into me and –”

“You’re an unrepentant thief who grew up on a farm,” Clint finished for him, getting up to answer the door.

Cory chuckled. “Yes, but it’s also funny,” he said as he moved to the kitchen to start a fresh pot of coffee.

 ➳ ➳ ➳ ➳ ➳ ➳ ➳ ➳ ➳ ➳ ➳ ➳ ➳ ➳ ➳ ➳ ➳ ➳ ➳ ➳ ➳

Underneath their winter coats, Steve, Natasha, and Wanda were all dressed for battle. They each carried a duffel holding extra weapons and clothes; Natasha also carried the case that held Clint’s bow, quiver, and arrows, while Steve’s shield was in a case strapped to his back.

“Hear anything?” Natasha asked Steve, aware he had a better range on his hearing thanks to the super soldier serum.

“Sheep bleating and Cory telling Clint it’s the doorbell and he thinks it’s funny,” Steve told her. “It’s safe to say if Cory stole his car, Clint’s forgiven him for it.”

That drew a surprised look from Natasha.

She did not have time to say anything as Clint was opening the door. “Come on in,” he invited, and they crowded into the vestibule. Clint took the time to lock the outside door before leading them up into the luxury apartment.

“Cory, this is Natasha Romanoff, Wanda Maximoff, and Steve Rogers,” Clint made the introductions. “Cory Raines, and before you ask, Natasha, yes, he is the same guy you think he is.”

“How is that possible?” Natasha questioned.

Wanda answered, “Because Cory died and he got up again, and had to start over, several times.” She looked at Cory as she spoke. “That is why you have been teaching Clint, not because you’re his post-divorce gay fling. The part I don’t get is why you need to fight with swords.”

Steve looked at the other men, confused. “Someone want to enlighten me?”

Cory offered a smile. “Why don’t you all take your coats off, put your bags down, have a seat in the living room, and I get you some drinks? I have coffee, water, whiskey, and beer.”

“I’ll wait, thanks,” Wanda said. Steve and Natasha also refused, but all three took a moment to take off their coats and put them in the coat closet.

“You still have coffee left over?” Surprised, Natasha turned to Clint. “You haven’t drunk it all yet?”

“He put on another pot when I came downstairs,” Clint explained. He picked up the mug he had left on the dining table, topped it off with fresh coffee, and moved to the side chair. Natasha, Steve, and Wanda took the sofa, while Cory took the other one.

“What is this about being able to die repeatedly?” Steve probed, looking at Cory.

Cory hesitated before he straightened his shoulders and said, “Some of us are born with the ability to be immortal. Until you die the first time, you’ll live like anyone else. After then, if your head stays on your shoulders, you’ll revive from anything that would otherwise kill you.”

Wanda pressed a hand to her mouth. “You were stripped naked and left to die in the cold. Oh my God. They hanged you for stealing. But I do not understand. It seems like a long time ago, when English sounded different than it does now.”

Startled, Cory looked at her. “You can see that?”

“Unless you know how to shield from me, yes, I see,” Wanda said, looking distressed. “I try not to look into other people’s minds, but surface thoughts are easy to pick up.”

Cory glanced at Clint, who nodded. “I told you.”

“For me, yes, it was several centuries ago. Those of us born with this ability do our best to keep it secret,” Cory said, “for obvious reasons. But there is one way to kill us: decapitation. Do that and we won’t be reviving again ever.”

Natasha looked at Clint. “This means I have to ask when you died and forgot to tell us.”

Clint grimaced. “Not sure, but it was in that second week while I was kidnapped. The days blurred together. Marlene beat me and drugged me. I thought I’d just been drugged unconscious but after that, the wound where the shackle was healed and kept healing every time it became a wound again.” He paused before adding, “Marlene was one of us. I didn’t know it until Cory explained it. She didn’t know I was like her, did she?”

Cory shook his head. “She assumed it was just some weird headache she got sometimes. Not all of us get teachers. Often that means you wind up with people who don’t understand the Game or are too willing to trust whatever someone tells them, even if it’s wrong.”

“Game?” Natasha interjected. “That implies you have rules. Are you part of some race or tribe that’s at war?”

Scoffing, Cory said, “I wish we were a tribe. Maybe we were one, eons ago. Maybe then we’d have a cultural reason for this shit instead of this damned tradition that says we duel each other to the death using swords until only one of is left standing to claim the world.”

“That immortal will have the knowledge of every immortal who ever lived, including immortals older than Cory,” Clint broke in.

“How much older is older, exactly?” Natasha asked.

“I thought ladies weren’t supposed to ask about age,” Cory teased.

With a smile tugging on her lips, Natasha said, “Humor me anyway.”

“I was born in 1256 and hanged in 1285 for stealing the king’s deer from Sherwood Forest and giving the meat away to the poor,” Cory said, his accent slipping into an English one. “So that makes me not only seven hundred and sixty-two, but Robin Hood. At your service, my lady.” He let that sink in as Natasha’s mind raced with the implications of what he had seen in seven centuries. In his usual accent, Cory added, “I know of someone over twelve hundred, and there’s rumor of someone five thousand. Problem is we have to be careful of what we share with others because the line between revolutionary and demon is thin.”

“People have discovered your kind is among us,” Natasha realized. “From the look on your face, you know people who were experimented on, killed, or burned at the stake for being witches.”

Cory nodded. “And some of the people conducting the experiments were our own. We’re just as good or evil or neutral as anyone else. We call ourselves immortals.”

Wanda looked at Cory worriedly. “I keep seeing lightning and you screaming. Why?”

“Knowledge transfer between immortals is painful,” Cory replied. “What looks like lightning is the Quickening, the essence of every immortal. In small doses, it heals an immortal. When an immortal takes another’s head, the Quickening is pain, pleasure, memories, and emotions and…”

“How you gain what they know and were,” Wanda finished. Her eyes gleamed with red light. She held a wisp of her power in her upturned right hand. “I volunteered to have the power to move things with my mind, to read others’ thoughts and influence what they see, but it hurt to gain it. I did not know if I would survive the process.” She turned her hand down and the red wisp vanished. Respect filled her voice as she added, “I can see why you might not want to fight when it means experiencing that kind of pain every time.”

Cory nodded while Natasha and Steve looked stunned. Steve was the first to speak. “You aren’t a single tribe or a culture, but you all know – or a sizable number of you know – you fight each other. You have people among you who have priceless knowledge of history, medicine, art, and science – and yet…”

“And yet,” Cory agreed and spread his hands wide. “I’d rather play pranks or rob banks than play the Game, but as Clint’s seen, I’ve done it. Until a few hours ago, I thought I was just going up against someone who likes to cheat by using young, gullible people to be his defenders because I annoyed him when I pulled a prank on him fifteen years ago. He thinks you – the Avengers you – are a barrier to him winning the Game.”

Steve exchanged glances with Natasha and Wanda. “How?”

“Who'd be impressed by an immortal when we have super-powered people, gods, aliens, and monsters, some of whom have already helped save the world?” Clint answered, shrugging. “We wouldn’t be. We’d all laugh and ask them what they wanted.”

With a nod of acknowledgement, Steve looked at Cory and asked, “You mentioned cheating. As Natasha said, that implies you have rules.”

Cory nodded, and told Steve, Natasha, and Wanda what they were. He finished by saying, “Evan’s been finding homeless young people, late teens or early twenties. He targets those who will be immortal upon their first death or had their first death and takes them in under his wing. He kills them to trigger their immortality or to ensure they revive in his ‘safe haven,’ teaches them how to hold a sword and not fall over and tells them that the only way to survive is to follow him.”

“He’s built a cult,” Natasha surmised.

Cory nodded. “Evan casts himself as a savior. If someone balks, he takes their head or uses them as a sacrifice to bolster another minion.”

“Does he teach them more than the basics of how to fight?” Steve wondered.

“No. They all know the same four moves and don’t know how to handle themselves when those fail.”

“How did you know he was upset with you?” Wanda asked.

“Started two years ago. The first minion Evan sent tried to seduce me. When that failed, he pinned her head to my back wall here with a note detailing what I’d done to annoy him. When I didn’t die of mortification or get arrested for murder and was still around a year later, he sent twins, hoping I would get confused and lose my head. He didn’t count on my having a friend around. That was a year ago. Day before yesterday, he sent another one. He lost that bet.” Cory smiled thinly. “He thinks I’m defenseless and weak.”

Natasha eyed him and leaned forward slightly. “Why? Clint wouldn’t trust you to teach him if you were.”

“I rarely teach other immortals,” Cory replied, leaning back in his seat. “I’m the last person most immortals think of sending anyone to because I don’t care who wins the Game. Odds are I won’t be alive to see who it is. I’d rather help feed the hungry or rob a bank to fund an orphanage or make someone laugh by pulling a prank. I don’t carry weapons more lethal than a cherry bomb. Everybody knows that.”

“Robin Hood without his bow but with a bag full of tricks and treats,” Natasha said, intrigued. “You let people underestimate you, think you’re nothing more than a thief who’s hopelessly out of date with your skills.”

Cory made a courtly half-bow. “It works,” he said, grinning. “Only a few friends know I can fight. Anyone who asks them about me will get an incredulous look of, ‘No, that must be someone who looks like him. That’s not our Cory. Are you sure he isn’t pulling your leg?’”

“Which leads to our current situation,” Clint put in. “Cory tried to fight Evan one on one but –”

“He armed his minions with those weapons,” Cory finished.

“If one of us were to kill him,” Steve began, “what happens to his Quickening?”

“Goes to me, to Clint, to both of us, or nowhere,” Cory replied. “Depends on proximity.”

“As in half a block or less,” Clint clarified. He glared at his teacher. “And you didn’t mention it could go to both of us.”

Cory looked sheepish. “Oops?”

“Would that be bad?” Wanda asked.

“I’ve heard it’s a terrific way to experience what it’s like to be a twin,” Cory said.

“You would have no privacy,” Wanda noted, an edge of grief in her tone. “That would be difficult to adjust to if you did not grow up with it. If one of you died, you’d ache in your soul for what you are missing.”

Clint reached over and clasped her hand in sympathy. She gripped his hand before letting go. Cory saw the gesture and asked, “You have a twin?”

“He died defending Sokovia,” Wanda replied.

“I’m sorry,” Cory said sympathetically. “I don’t have any siblings, but I have friends I consider to be.”

She nodded acknowledgement. “Friends help.”

“How many people make up his cult?” Steve asked, tactfully changing the subject, and the planning for the strike on Evan began.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all of the feedback so far!  
> Anyone placing their bets on who gets Evan's Quickening?


	10. Chapter 10

The two-story, 5,000-square foot mansion Evan had chosen for his base had a huge backyard. The house was in an upscale neighborhood where a thick stand of trees and a long winding driveway segregated each house. Trees surrounded the house on three sides, making sneaking up to it a breeze. Natasha had obtained the house plans from the city building permit department. Cory hoped they would not have to go upstairs; he was not looking forward to chasing someone through such a large house.

All the Avengers wore protective armor, as did Cory, designed to lessen the impact of the hybrid laser guns. Standing on the edge of the tree line behind the house, Wanda focused her powers on the enemy, seeing where Evan’s followers were, and convinced them to stop doing what they were doing.

“I’m getting resistance from the three strongest of Evan’s followers,” Wanda warned the team. “They’re upstairs, leading a class. But everyone has something or someone they fear,” she said. “And those three fear Evan will abandon them the most. Go, while I still have them.”

Natasha moved to disable the vehicles and find where the hybrid laser weapons were stored. Clint and Cory hung back at the tree line while Steve moved to the front of the house and used a megaphone.

“You are violating the Alien-Based Weapons Act for unlawful possession of illegal alien-tech-based weapons,” Steve announced. “Step out of the house and surrender your weapons.”

“That’s our cue,” Clint told Cory, who took a deep breath, nodded, and moved forward. Clint held his bow in one hand; his quiver and sword hung across his back. Cory had his broadsword in a cross-back sheath with the hilt within easy reach of his right hand; a dagger hid in his left boot, while a second dagger was in his leather vest, beneath the armored vest he wore. The two immortals moved forward to the rear of the house.

Clint tried the back door and found it unlocked. As quietly as they could, they stepped into the expansive kitchen.

They could hear Evan shouting. “What are you all doing?” he roared. “Why are you standing there?!”

Evan stood in the grand hallway, shouting at a pair of minions who had stopped partway down the stairs. The higher of the two minions held a Vulture-engineered laser gun. Both minions had the look Clint recognized as being under Wanda’s thrall. Evan’s back was to Clint and Cory, and he wore an olive-brown suit. His black hair laid in a neat crown a noticeable length above his ears and neckline. He was broad shouldered but not muscular, heavier on top than below the waist, and was of average height for a Caucasian man. A cavalry saber was strapped to his waist.

Annoyed he was getting no answers, Evan tried to wrestle the laser gun out of the minion’s grip, but he held onto it tighter and fired, hitting his companion, and killing him. The minion holding the gun then pointed it at Evan, who scurried down the stairs, ordering, “No, Edward, don’t fire!”

Five more minions poured down the stairs, looking as though they had all seen the same horrifying vision. Annoyed, Evan pulled out a revolver from his waistband and fired, killing all of them before they could exit the front door. He then decapitated all of them; lightning flashed as he absorbed their Quickenings. Dropping the now-empty gun, he lifted his head and straightened his tie before returning to the problem of the minion still on the stairs.

Clint scowled at Evan’s disdain for human life. “Sure you don’t want me to shoot him now?” he hissed at Cory.

“I don’t want him getting his hands on that laser gun,” Cory whispered.

“Like I do?” Clint demanded, but Cory ignored him and stepped out in the hallway.

Clint stayed in the kitchen. He positioned himself so he could see what was happening in the hallway but would not be seen by Evan.

“Hello, Evan. Since you brought friends to the fight, I thought I’d return the favor,” Cory drawled as he drew his sword. “You want my head? Come and get it.”

Evan turned and froze. Immediately, he called, “Josie! Larry! Marvin!”

“Looking for your favorite minions?” Cory asked. “I think they’re a little busy facing their fears. Are you that afraid to face me? I’m just a prankster and a thief.”

Panic raced across Evan’s face. Cory thought he had a toad’s face, and shoved that amusing but distracting thought away.

“You…you weren’t supposed to do this,” Evan said, his hands and arms flailing.

Cory crossed his arms and rolled his eyes. “What, challenge you? How the fuck do you think the Game works? You sent me such clear messages I was to die, and I’m tired of dealing with your minions.”

“But…but…” Evan sputtered, and ran into the kitchen.

He quickly backed up, horror on his face. Clint held his crossbow in hand, an arrow cocked and ready.

“Nuh uh,” Clint said. “You should know the rules, Evan. You were challenged by Cory, which means you get to fight him, not one of your followers.”

“But, but…you’re immortal! You’re an Avenger!” Evan gasped, as if he had never considered an Avenger could be of his kind.

“Funny thing, that,” Clint drawled, “guess it goes to show you never know who will be or is an immortal.” In a smooth motion, he put the arrow away in its quiver, slung his bow to his back, and drew his sword. “Now, coward, either you fight him, or I take your head.”

Cornered, Evan looked at Clint, then at Cory. “You’re not who you pretend to be,” he spat. “You trick all of the immortals and think you’re hilarious shit and you’re not.”

“Aw, is that the worst insult you can come up with?” Cory taunted. “Come fight me, Evan, you ugly toad. Did your mother fuck an ogre? You kill children and take their Quickenings, but you’re too scared to try for my head when it’s me against you?” Cory made chicken noises, putting as much sneer and derision into his voice as he could.

Furious now, Evan drew his sword and charged Cory, sword raised high in his right hand.

Cory waited and stepped aside at the precise moment, as if Evan was only a raging bull and he the matador. Evan skidded on the polished hardwood floor as he tried to stop his momentum. He barely managed it, then turned and charged again. This time, Cory stuck his sword out just enough to slice Evan’s left shoulder. Instinctively, Evan went to grip the wound, only to catch himself before he dropped his sword.

Anger painted Evan’s face red as he tried once more to attack Cory. Once again, Cory dodged him, and laughed. While Evan regained his breath, Cory took the time to discard the laser-protective vest he had been wearing, wanting to move more freely than it allowed.

Evan shifted strategies and gripped his sword with both hands as he charged. Cory met the attack and parried it, then stepped back insultingly. “You learn how to fight from YouTube?”

“You don’t know me,” Evan cried. Sweat dripped down his face and he breathed heavily. “I’m older than you! You’re only thirty!” He attacked; Cory parried and countered until he was holding Evan’s sword with his own and pushing it towards Evan’s neck.

“No, you idiot,” Cory said, and forced Evan to let go of his sword. “I’m much older than you’ll ever know.”

Evan closed his eyes in defeat as Cory struck the killing blow.

Just as he breathed in, prepared to take the Quickening, Cory felt an arrow hit his chest. His eyes widened as he realized Clint was paying him back. “Clint, you don’t –”

Clint stepped into view as death’s darkness claimed him and he crashed to the floor. Cory heard, “Yes, you old thief, I do.”

Clint watched his teacher die as Evan’s Quickening reached for him. Bracing himself for the onslaught, Clint planted the tip of his sword in the floor and used it as a grounding point, not caring he was damaging the hardwood floor by doing so. The first kiss of Evan’s Quickening reminded Clint of Wanda’s power, and then the barrage began. Memories of a life not his own, emotions he had never felt, and a hunger for power at any cost flooded through Clint like a deluge, and he fought to stay afloat. He was not Evan Solli. He was not Loki’s puppet. He was Clint Barton, Hawkeye, Avenger, lover of Laura Barton, father of three children he would always help raise because…because he loved them and they were innocent, and he was a good man with a great heart and Cory had taught him to take this Quickening and make it his own and he was, he was, he was –

“Aw, fuck, no, immortal,” Clint screamed.

Breathing hard, Clint fought against the tide. He was not drowning in a sea of images of places he had never been, people he had never met, lessons he had never learned, cruelties he had never endured. He was not any of the misguided young people who had trusted Evan, only to die at his hand. He was not a man who had taken his teacher’s head. Evan was not him. Evan, who had forced another to take a Quickening so he could enjoy the show, was not Clint. He was more honorable than that and would always be –

Clinton Francis Barton and  
he would burn that son of a bitch Evan to ash and  
he would remember he was an Iowa farm boy turned carnie and  
he would keep loving what he did for a living because it mattered and  
he loved to shoot his bow and prove a Neolithic weapon still was relevant and  
he should have let Cory take this bastard’s head because oh how this hurt and  
he had miscalculated just how much he was also getting from the minions whose heads Evan had taken in succession and  
he would tease Cory for the next hundred years about owing him for this shit and  
he was Clint Barton, Hawkeye and the tide was receding into a compartment he could put away and  
he had won, won against another immortal, won this fight and –

 _Clint, you won; breathe_ , Wanda murmured in his head.

With a great, gulping gasp, Clint opened eyes he had not realized he had closed, and saw he had sliced his hand on his sword. Evan’s head was now ashes, though the rest of his corpse remained. Swearing, Clint removed his hand from his sword to allow it to heal.

Cory had revived and stood up. He removed the arrow from his chest, and looked at his student. “Thanks, Clint,” he said. “Next time, let’s point the arrows at a target and not each other?”

Clint barked a laugh. “Agreed.”

Natasha stepped forward, her expression showing she had seen at least part of the light show. “You okay, Clint? That looked…intense.” Clint heard ‘and I will be asking you questions later’ in her tone.

The two immortals exchanged looks. “Nothing a few shots of whiskey wouldn’t help,” Clint answered.

“You were shot in the heart,” Natasha remarked, looking at Cory. “Do you mind if I see where you were shot?”

In reply, Cory pulled the shirt open further, showing he had no scars. Natasha stepped closer and touched Cory’s skin, marveling at the lack of injury. “You can kiss it better if you want,” he smirked.

Natasha stepped back and raised an eyebrow, her expression telling him he was out of luck.

Cory grinned, unrepentant. “He’s going to have to get better at hiding injuries,” he told her, jerking a thumb towards Clint.

“We’ll come up with something,” Clint assured him. “Did you find the other weapons?” he asked Natasha.

“Bed of the pickup truck in the garage is loaded with several crates’ worth,” she said with a nod. “Likely part of a shipment that escaped the Wrecking Crew’s warehouse before the Vulture was arrested.”

“What happens to Evan’s minions now?” Cory wondered.

“Wanda has the three chief ones frozen upstairs,” Natasha told them. “She said they’re the only ones left other than the one on the stairs. We’ve called the police; they’ll take them into custody and process them for possession of Vulture’s weapons.”

“Make sure they get counseling,” Cory advised. “If we’re not careful, they’ll hunt me or Clint down for what happened here.”

Natasha nodded. “You and Clint get out of here; Steve, Wanda, and I will deal with the cleanup.”

At Cory’s confused look, she elaborated, “Better for you both if you were never here, especially you, Cory. Seems the FBI still has an outstanding warrant for you.”

“Damn it, Matthew! I swear that man has radar where I’m concerned,” Cory griped.

“Who?”

“I’ll tell you later,” Clint promised her. “Is the chopper waiting?”

“Back yard.”

“Right,” Clint agreed, and nudged Cory when he didn’t move fast enough.

➳ ➳ ➳ ➳ ➳ ➳ ➳ ➳ ➳ ➳ ➳ ➳ ➳ ➳ ➳ ➳ ➳ ➳ ➳ ➳ ➳

Later that day, seated in the living room of his luxury apartment, Cory pulled out a bottle of whiskey and shared it with Clint. “Consider yourself graduated. Call me anytime,” he told his student as he toasted him. “And if you’re ever in Paris, check out Sanctuary; it’s Amanda and Nick’s club –”

“And don’t mention I know you?” Clint teased. He drank the shot Cory had poured, feeling it anesthetize his nerve endings and smooth out the leftover remnants of the fight.

“Oh, you can mention you ran into me,” Cory said with a shrug. “Just be sure to tell them I played a grand joke on you.”

“The best,” Clint agreed. “You told me I would live forever as long as I kept my head, tricked me into taking a Quickening for you, and somehow I’m still in debt to you because you taught me. Thought you owed me.”

Cory paused before he refilled Clint’s glass. He processed what Clint had said before saying, “I did not trick you. You chose.”

Clint chuckled and leaned back in his chair, certain of his position. “Nope, you tricked me. You started it by shooting me first.”

“And what if I think otherwise?”

“We can settle this in an archery competition. Interested?”

Cory smiled wolfishly. “Bring it on, boyo.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all of the comments and feedback! If you're reading this story long after the posting date, please know that I love to get constructive comments, kudos, HTML hearts, and "I loved this!" style comments anytime afterwards. (Even if it's years. Seriously.)
> 
> If you're headed to [Escapade](http://escapadecon.net) \- see you there! :-)

**Author's Note:**

> ...this is a cute and pettable plot bunny and it ate my brain. ~~Updates are random and will likely be at least once a week, more on weekends, but I rarely post anything I don't finish, so please subscribe.~~ Comments, suggestions on where this goes from here, constructive criticism, and kudos welcome!


End file.
